


Mountain at my Gates

by imperfectkreis



Series: Mountain at My Gates [1]
Category: Mass Effect, Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Artificial Intelligence, Blood, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Choking, Facials, Flashbacks, Hair-pulling, Infidelity, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Kink, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Infidelity, Praise Kink, References to Depression, Robot Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Spit Kink, Vomiting, mild breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-10-13 06:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 54,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10508415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: Anthony Ryder is a less than ideal candidate for Pathfinder. Well intentioned and willing to learn from his mistakes, he's at least going to make a go at the task his father "gifted" to him.Reyes Vidal doesn't make mistakes. Only creates new opportunities. He doesn't need a whole galaxy at his disposal, just enough of a foothold that he doesn't fall off the edge of the cliff he's scaled.





	1. I'd say stop me if you've heard this one before, but I can't shut up that easily.

It’s a lot. A lot a lot a lot.

Ryder covers his eyes and blinks in the darkness.

His father is dead and SAM is in his head. That makes him Pathfinder now. Him. Not Cora Harper. Him.

Breathe. In and out. Just fine.

Aurelia is still in her stasis pod. Coma. But fine. She’ll wake up. Vitals are strong. She's strong,

Ryder spreads his fingers, letting the light back in. The fluorescence of the Hyperion manages to be comforting. Not like the harsh sun on Habitat 7. He feels sick.

T'Perro tells him to lie back down. While his vitals are fine, he was dead, after all. Before SAM brought him back. SAM.

 _I am here, Anthony,_ SAM reverberates across his synapses.

Ryder listens to T'Perro, laying back down on the cot. This time he stares at the ceiling, trying to keep his hands away from his face. There’s a giddiness now, blooming in his chest. SAM is more than his father ever let on. And in this terrifying moment after death, Ryder feels closer to his father than he ever has.

\--

Before they prepare to board the Nexus, Ryder gets just twenty minutes to himself in his father’s quarters on the Hyperion. His quarters. They’re his now.

He sets the coffeemaker to brew. But he knows there’s not enough time for it to work its magic, then cool enough for Ryder to drink, just on the right side of room temperature. He hates burning the roof of his mouth. The dripping noise is too uneven to be soothing.

SAM reminds him that they need to talk about Profiles, before they disembark.

_I can augment your biotics, if you wish._

“I’m not a biotic,” Ryder responds out of habit. He’s not. Not like Aurelia, who has had at least some training. He knows there’s something there, static in his head that shouldn’t be. His parents knew too. No way that Aurelia could make their toys float, stringing them across their tiny Citadel bedroom, and he couldn’t. They shared prenatal exposure.

But it’s not enough. He’s not biotic. He still sits on the other side.

_I can enhance-_

“No,” Ryder insists. “Spec me for tech. There’s no use experimenting now.”

_Understood._

The coffeemaker finishes, a tiny, single beep ringing through the Pathfinder’s quarters. Ryder pours out a cup, leaving it on the kitchenette table. Still too hot to drink. Opening the freezer, he finds ice cubes. Dropping them in will dilute the coffee. He holds two of them in his hand until they start to melt. Indecisive.

“Ryder,” Harper comes in over the comms, “we’ve docked with the Nexus.”

Ryder throws the ice cubes in the sink.

\--

The Nexus is a shit show.

Ryder listens to SAM, following instructions on auto-pilot. Turn here, speak to this person, proceed down the hall. Stop. Go. It’s easy enough to make his body work, to follow the trail. He almost wishes that there were something for him to fight, rather than trying to make his words work to his advantage.

The lights are low across the station. The circulation system runs loudly, kicking into gear and filling up the empty spaces. Bodies are supposed to cushion the sound, eat it up. But right now, everything is hollow.

The Nexus leadership, if he can call them that, are cautious about his arrival. Some of them are more optimistic than others. Addison’s voice grates. When she speaks, Ryder tries to listen. He hopes SAM can repeat what she said later.

_Noted._

Knowing that SAM is listening, Ryder relaxes, dropping his shoulders. He lets the Nexus leadership talk amongst themselves. About him, but as if he isn’t really there. Even when Director Tann addresses him directly, it’s as if the Salarian is speaking through Ryder, trying to reach his father on the other side. Maybe, with SAM, he is.

_I am being rewritten by your experiences._

“Noted.”

Director Tann thinks that Ryder is responding to him. Ryder doesn’t correct the assumption.

“Hooking the Hyperion into the Nexus power grid will get the lights on, but it won’t sustain us for long,” Kesh explains.

Addison speaks.

 _She is urging you to find resources,_ SAM summarizes, _Without a place for the colonists to go, they cannot be woken from statis. This is your task as Pathfinder._

“You don’t have a choice,” Ryder responds, “and neither do I.”

Addison frowns.

To Eos, then.

\--

Nyx sits up front with Ryder, as they set out across Eos in the Nomad. She says the passenger seat has more headroom, which relegates Harper and Kosta to the back.

“I can drive, you know!” Kosta argues. “Why don’t you sit in the back, Pathfinder?”

Ryder tightens his fist around the shifter, putting the car into traction mode as they ascend the hill over Site 1. “I’m the Pathfinder. I should, you know, find paths?” It’s a lame comeback. Kosta’s driving is probably just fine. Besides that, it doesn’t actually have to be fine. The Nomad is tougher built than any of their stomachs.

Ryder rolls the Nomad to a dead stop at the top of the hill. From here, they can get a lay of the surroundings.

“Ahead there are constructs consistent with the Kett technologies we encountered on Habitat 7,” SAM notes.

“How many Kett?” Ryder asks.

Kosta and Harper take his talking to SAM in stride. Nyx only appears mildly more suspicious, narrowing her eyes but saying nothing. She’s important enough to the Initiative, close enough to Kesh, that she must have had some idea that they were utilizing AI before she ever went into stasis. Still, Ryder’s integration with SAM is intense.

“Between eight and twelve. At this distance, I cannot pinpoint exactly how many distinct heat signatures,” SAM speaks through Ryder’s comm so the others can hear.

“They have to know we’re here. We showed up with the Tempest,” Kosta says.

Harper asks, “Which begs the question, why haven’t we been attacked yet?”

“Waiting for reinforcements,” Nyx shakes her head. “Maybe they know about Habitat 7. You won against the odds there, right? So now they’re being cautious.”

Ryder nods. That all makes sense.

The Nomad doesn’t have offensive capabilities. So if they’re going to fight the Kett, they either need to do it inside the Site 1 barrier, or eliminate the Kett quickly enough that life support holds up. They can’t afford to let the Kett choose the terms of engagement.

“We turn around,” Ryder reasons, “wait for them to meet us at Promise. We’ll be ready.”

They head back down the hill. The four of them are silent until Ryder parks the Nomad again.

This isn’t something he knows how to do.

Disengaging the doors, Ryder stays rooted in the driver’s seat while Nyx, Harper, and Kosta climb out. He keeps his knuckles white against the steering paddles, gripping down hard. In the Milky Way, he was little more than a glorified security guard. Never saw real combat. Not like his dad.

_**SAM** _

_Yes, Pathfinder._

_**Help.** _

_I would recommend Harper and Nyx as your front line. Harper’s biotic abilities should significantly slow approaching forces, while Nyx’s Initiative records demonstrates sound decision-making in high pressure situations. And her technical capabilities enhance her armor significantly._

_Initiative records and pre-departure combat testing indicate that Kosta currently your most accurate marksman. However, his personality profile suggests it is unlikely you will be able to keep him at a distance, as he also possesses significant CQC experience. I would recommend allowing him to transition dynamically between roles._

“Okay,” Ryder finally swings his legs out of the Nomad, sticking them back onto the Eos dirt.

As long as they stay inside Promise’s boundaries, the radiation shouldn’t wear down their life support systems. Now, with a plan in hand, they wait.

They end up waiting for hours. The sun is low on the horizon before SAM detects the Kett drop ship incoming. Ryder should have realized that the Kett would try to gain the upper hand as well. They’re not mindless. That much is for certain.

With his team already prepped on their roles, he radios back to the Tempest, telling Jath and Anwar what they already know. They’re holding orbit above the planet, keeping the ship out of the way while Ryder and his team try to clear the Kett.

Ryder tucks himself behind a 6x6x4 crate, keeping his head low and listening to the hum of the Kett engine. The Kett probably saw them come into Promise and then not leave. But that doesn’t mean they know the exact position of Ryder’s team.

SAM is silent too, but only because Ryder has no questions in this moment. Harper knows they move on her signal. Or, rather, on her charge.

He hears Kett boots hit the ground. Trying to count out the pairs, he loses track.

_Eight._

There's the buzz of Harper shifting her mass ahead of him. He can feel it at the base of his skull. And something changes in Ryder too. He can feel vomit in the back of his throat. Acidic and awful.

Then comes Harper’s feet, reeling against the packed Eos dirt. Kett chatter that the translator still can't quite parse. But none of it sounds composed. Harper’s put them on the defensive.

Nyx honestly laughs. Because maybe laughing is better than giving into how overwhelming Andromeda has been so far. The odds they're up against. How they stand on the precipice of oblivion.

Ryder pops up from cover long enough to send out an Overload pulse, stopping a Kett outside of Harper’s range before it can creep any closer. The electricity fries its nervous system, causing the Kett to seize in place, back straight and arms at its sides. Its hand clenches around its firearm, holding tight. Ryder draws his pistol with his left hand, bringing around his right to steady as he fires. He empties three shots into the Kett’s torso before his overload can recover.

He keeps his combat drone up, even though in the darkness, its silvery luminescence gives away exactly where he is and where he's going, as he darts from cover to cover. He needs the drone to augment his powers. Cut down on recharge speed, boost the power. If there were daylight, the glowing orb wouldn't be such a risk.

Still, it's a calculated one.

A second dropship arrives, then a third. Ryder works through the exhaustion, hitting him like a brick wall, he scrapes his fingers across the coarse surface. He's got to climb.

SAM senses it before Ryder does. A Kett has broken through Harper and Nyx’s line. Heavy boots charge towards Ryder’s position.

_Pathfinder._

But Ryder doesn't have time to move before his combat drone explodes, sending out a pulse that gives him a second more to compensate for the Kett having gotten so close.

_Pathfinder, your Omni-blade._

In a panic, Ryder drops his gun. But his second instinct isn't for his blade, but to reach out his hand and shoot off flames at short range. He feels the heat of Incinerate bouncing back off of the Kett’s armor, as it strikes hard into the alien’s chest.

Someone is shouting. It's his name, Ryder, Ryder! But the noise is so dim under the roar the Kett lets out.

Coming to his senses, Ryder wrenches his arm away, drawing out his Omni-blade. He plunges it into the first exposed bit of Kett he can see. Right into its neck.

_You’re doing so well._

Ryder lets the blade fade out, then hardens it again for a second strike. Green, viscous blood oozes out from the Kett’s neck, sticking fast to Ryder’s armor.

The Kett drops him and the yelling stops. Both Incinerate and Overload are readied for deployment. First he calls his drone again.

He learns from SAM. SAM learns from him.

_Pathfinder._

\--

The Asari plants her hands on either side of Ryder’s head, smiling bright and close to his face. Their noses almost touch. The dark strip over her face makes her eyes all the more vibrant.

She introduces herself as Peebee, sitting back onto Ryder’s stomach. She sticks her hands on his chest instead, the pads of her fingers starting to patter.

“Could you get off of me?” Ryder shoves at her shoulder, gently, trying to dislodge her from on top of him.

Confusion crosses over her face, but she moves, hopping to her feet.

When Peebee explains her work with the Monoliths, “the Remnant,” she talks excitedly with her hands, drawing pictures in the air. The way she keeps up two conversations, with her fingers and her mouth, is dizzying to watch. He's never seen an Asari move so quickly, and with so little composure. If he didn't know better, he'd think that her “father” was a human. But she's too old. Probably by a couple hundred years.

“So,” Ryder tries to make sense of it all, “we need to visit the other monoliths?”

Peebee claps her hands together, shouting, “that's right! I'll stay on the comms.”

Ryder would rather keep her where he can see her. She still has a lot of things to explain, like how she ended up on Eos in the first place. How she's survived when everyone else dies. He's seen the bodies. At Promise, yes, but scattered across the wastes as well.

The corpses bloat, distending their features, before all the moisture is sucked back into the dirt, leaving the bodies dry. Horrible. Horrible.

Once they're back inside the Nomad, Ryder asks SAM aloud, “Can you pull her Initiative records?”

“Of course.”

Kosta and Harper talk about Peebee from the backseat, making all sorts of conjectures about who she might be. Why she came out of stasis. How she got to Eos. Nyx, who has infinitely more on the ground, uh, up in space, experience here in the cluster, tells them that she'd put money against their theories any day. The last fourteen months, the Nexus hasn't been as systematic about waking up people as they should have been.

“And what about you, Vetra?” Kosta leans forward over the back seat to playfully punch Nyx in the shoulder.

Nyx puts her head back, tilting to look Kosta right in the eyes, “I'm fucking indispensable. You'll see.”

\--

“It's beautiful,” Ryder says, as the vault doors slide open. A dark expanse, littered with blue-white light, emanating from the floors, the walls.

“Pathfinder,” SAM says, “you can use your scanner to trace the conduit to the next interface console.”

While Peebee entered the vault with them, following down the gravity well, she's split off already. Can handle herself, she says. Does better on her own. But when SAM goes silent, he can hear her whistling over the comms.

His three companions stay on alert as he uses SAM’s scanner to follow the conduit. When the Remnant constructs show, he drops the scan, hiding behind the slim bezel of the open doorway. The other three draw their weapons, leaving Ryder behind.

He breathes deeply, keeping low as he moves to the next pillar that will provide him cover. The Remnant won't pay him any mind. Not with three more pressing threats so much closer. His pistol stays on his hip as he pops up to let his Overload take down an Observer’s shields, making it easier for Cora to unload her shotgun right into the construct’s center.

“Didn't know you really were that shy, Pathfinder!” Peebee teases. Ryder doesn't know where she is, but she must be close enough to see him. Maybe somewhere overhead. “Thought you were just trying to look modest.”

Ryder grits his teeth, sending out another blast. This time, he stays exposed longer, hoping that his shields will stay intact as he runs ahead. Don't be afraid.

“Incinerate, ready,” SAM informs him.

Before he can reach cover, Ryder looks up, takes aim, and fires.

\--

Run. Run. Run.

SAM helps him breathe, taking the burn out of his lungs as they race back towards the vault entrance. The cloud of destruction, purification, nips at their heels. It's close enough that Ryder can smell it. Like fire and fresh earth. But it stings.

_You can make it, Pathfinder. You are so close._

“The purification field is approaching,” SAM says over everyone’s comms

Harper shouts back, “Noticed!”

Kosta grabs Ryder’s hand, trying to drag him faster towards the console. If he doesn't make it, all of them die. They need SAM to activate the interface. And there isn't time to transfer to Harper.

“Keep your ass in gear!” Kosta shouts over the roar of the vault.

They run up the stairs to the console. Ryder has to turn, slam his hand down hard for SAM to work. He faces the cloud as it approaches, keeping his eyes open. If this fails…

“Pathfinder, the purification cloud has been neutralized. I detect reduced radiation levels on the surface.”

His heart is pounding so fast inside his chest. Dropping down, he crouches next to the console, his hand still on the surface. He squeezes his eyes shut, watching white burst behind his eyelids.

_Pathfinder, Harper is speaking to you._

_**How should I respond?** _

_Honestly._

“I'm fine. Just need to catch my breath.” Ryder pulls himself back up.

When he looks up, the dark of the vault is filled with glittering stars, emanating from the device he grabbed from the console at the heart of the vault. It's beautiful, in its delicacy, like fine, golden lace. Heleus as a network.

“There,” Ryder realizes, pointing to a bright planet, “that's where we go next.” He moves his fingers through the map, letting the light catch on his glove. Pulling the glove off, he lets the simulated planet rest against his skin instead. Something is special about that place. They have to go.

\--

After hailing Addison, explaining that they've found a suitable site for an outpost. After trying to settle her concerns, Ryder locks himself in his quarters.

They have time yet before they reach the Nexus. He’ll need to talk to Drack and Peebee, see how they're settling in. Or if Peebee is going to bail, once they reach their destination. And what they're supposed to do with this new information.

Now that there aren't Kett and Remnant firing at him from all angles, he starts to believe he can do this. He and SAM can do this. It's like a puzzle, or a game. Just has to collect the possible pieces, then find out how they fit together.

“SAM?” locked in his quarters, he doesn't worry about other people hearing. Though the walkway to the bridge is over his head. Sound carries, sure, but the distinctness of individual words muffle out into a low ringing with the Tempest’s engines.

“Yes, Pathfinder?”

“Can you show me the Remnant star chart, again?”

“Of course.”

SAM brings up the chart, scattering stars and planets across the room. Ryder watches them shift subtly. After they talk with the Nexus leadership, they have a new navpoint. And it might just be the key.

Ryder sits on the floor, his back against the bed and legs spread out in front of him. Pulling at the front of his hoodie, he fidgets with nothing else to do.

“So you’ll always be here, connected to me, right, SAM?” Ryder asks.

“Yes. I am linked to your neural processing. You might consider me “embedded.” However, it is not my intention to cause you discomfort. I can remain silent and unobtrusive when required.”

Ryder thinks on that, pointing his toes down, then pulling them up again. The lights from the star chart distend slightly when he moves.

_**SAM?** _

_Yes, Pathfinder._

_**Tell me how I did today? On Eos…** _

_You performed above all predicted expectations._

SAM is silent for a moment. Ryder closes his eyes, breathing in and out through his nose. If what SAM said they are is true, they should already know. The way Ryder’s heart rate picks up, how his mind starts to wander, rubbing his palm against his top of his thigh, then the inside. SAM should read all of that, and understand.

_Anthony._

The hairs on the back of Ryder’s neck pick up, his skin goose-fleshing, despite the temperature in the Tempest remaining constant.

_You did so well, Anthony. Good._

SAM’s voice is the same even keel it always is. Somehow, that makes it better. He pushes up the hem of his hoodie, just far enough to run his fingers above his waistband, not yet ready to venture lower, though he’s already starting to harden, just from some simple words, pinging against his brain.

The ship-wide comms come on. Anwar informing him that Addison is hailing them again.


	2. Try this in for size before making a commitment to a life you can't sustain

Ryder hardly recognizes the Nexus when they come through the airlock. It's been a matter of days, but the station is already coming to life, taking its first steps towards permanency in the cluster.

The Tempest crew scatters as soon as they touch down. Each one brimming with priorities.

Jath and Brodie bicker from the moment they disembark. Both of them decide they're staying with the ship through refueling, stocking, and light maintenance. Neither are willing to leave her alone.

Brodie perches himself atop a steel crate to keep his vigil, letting his legs hang off the edge. He's just tall enough that his feet graze the tarmac landing zone.

“Don't you have places to be, people to talk to?” Brodie asks when Ryder doesn't immediately head upstairs to the atrium. Jath disappears somewhere on the other side of the Tempest.

Ryder scuffs his boots against the ground, feeling how the rubber sole wears down a little, “In a second.” He should have changed into sneakers.

Brodie smiles as him, scraping his still-gloved hand over his bearded chin, “I'll still be here, when you get back. Gotta make sure our pilot doesn't reverse what I've been working on.”

“That's not…” Ryder isn't sure why he's sticking around. Just avoiding Addison, he supposes. She’s why they had to head back to the Nexus in the first place. Instead of heading straight out to the new navpoint. Yeah, they need more supplies, now that they've picked up two additional crew mates. But mostly, it's because Addison has lingering questions about Eos, and their first outpost.

No, their third outpost.

He shouldn't forget. Promise, and Hope. He can't forget the bodies half-buried in radioactive dirt. What happened to their faces…

Ryder takes the empty transport shuttle to Operations. He can only assume his more responsible crewmembers are shopping, and the less responsible ones are drinking, but he can't decide who belongs to which category, yet.

“Kosta is in the Vortex. Harper is handling inventory management. Drack and Nyx have both arrived in Operations,” SAM informs him.

“And Peebee?”

“Her apartment here on the Nexus.”

“Okay.”

The transport whirrs as it crosses the Nexus. It has windows, but there's nothing to see but the inside of the tunnel.

“Why do you do that?” Ryder asks.

“Do what?” SAM replies.

“Sometimes you use our private channel, sometimes you use the speaker in my Omni-tool, or everyone's omnis.” He traces his fingers against the image of the Nexus, illuminated on the navigation screen. Tracing the outline, he reaches his starting point, then continues moving, back the way he came.

“Your companions will grow less suspicious of me and my capabilities over time, as they are exposed. It is inadvisable that we only ever use the private channel.”

“I see.”

“For now, we are alone. It makes little difference which I use. But Nexus security likewise will adapt more quickly to my continued presence, if I am detected on their audio-visual feeds.”

“Yeah, of course,” Ryder feels almost silly for having asked.

_I am dynamically making decisions about what to share, and what is private. You may inform me if I make a mistake._

“Thanks, SAM.”

The transport comes to a stop, Ryder slipping out the sliding doors.

He catches sight of Nyx, speaking with another, white-carapaced Turian stationed at one of the banks of panels against the far wall. He thinks that unit is for long-range communications and data gathering. But he can't remember. Much less of the Nexus was functional before they left for Eos.

Addison is really the only person he has to speak to while here. Though he probably should check in with Director Tann as well. Honestly, he'd rather deal with Kesh, than either of those two. Kesh is straightforward, honest in her appraisal of others. So she's...easier.

The Colonial Affairs director flags him down, as soon as he starts ascending the stairs to her usual post. She's smiling, but it's terse, unkind. Two assistants humming at their Omni-tools flank her on either side.

“Pathfinder, there are decisions to be made.”

Addison shuffles Ryder, and the two assistants, to a more private office Ryder has never seen before. But, he'll, he's only seen a small fraction of the station. Sitting at her desk, Addison is framed by large monitors mounted on the wall behind her. They play concept images of hypothetical Golden Worlds on repeat. Ryder can't help but find them morbid in their perfection.

Now that the Nexus has power, and not just low, emergency lighting, Ryder can see Addison’s face more clearly. She's done herself up in bright colors, over her eyes, cheeks, lips. Rather unlike most working on the Nexus. The Turians have their clan marks, yeah, and some of the Initiative staff do wear makeup. Harper lines her eyes, and Anwar keeps putting sticky gloss on her lips, every time she sits down at her station, then again when she stands up. While she's working, she chews it off her lips bit by bit. Ryder isn't sure, but he's pretty certain it must taste good. He wonders if she'll be heartbroken when it runs out. Or if she has backups. Maybe it helps her feel more normal, at home, something.

SAM helps him through the meeting. Ryder insists on a research outpost on Eos, instead of a military one. Yes, there are still Kett on the planet, but that doesn't mean they can't deploy militia members too, right? Just that they'll prioritize putting down scientists. There might be other species in the cluster. The Kett are hostile, but that doesn't mean all inhabitants are.

_Correct, Pathfinder._

Maybe it's a mistake to bring up the navpoint they located in Eos’ vault. Because once he does, Addison says they better go meet with Tann. The whole party gets up to move to Tann’s more spacious office.

“SAM, can we get Harper in on this meeting?” he's not too proud to admit he could use a second opinion on this, or a third. Harper is the logical choice.

Kesh ends up joining them as well, and Kandros, over comms. That is, until Tann decides it's too risky to have this discussion where others could potentially tap in. So while Harper arrives within ten minutes, they end up waiting another twenty for Kandros to wrap up his work and join them.

Harper keeps up conversation with the others, letting Ryder relax against the couch cushions while they wait. He feels himself sinking into the well, voices scattering over his skin. SAM pulls him back when Kandros finally arrives.

Despite everyone being perfectly comfortable sitting down, the stand around the galaxy map to talk about the next steps forward.

“Here,” Ryder points to the right planet on the star chart. “This vault is different, we have to figure out how. The vaults are the key to our survival.”

“I don't disagree,” Addison starts.

_She is explaining the importance of Prodromos’ continued viability. Addison recommends strongly that you first travel with the initial wave of colonists to the outpost site. And meet publicly with August Bradley. Once complete, you may depart for the Onaon system._

“Fine,” Ryder agrees, when Addison’s mouth stops moving. “But no more special projects.”

“Agreed,” Tann concludes their meeting.

As they're heading out, Harper grabs Ryder by the arm, holding him back.

“Hey,” she soothes, “you want to see your sister, before we leave?”

There's no point. He's already gotten the email from Dr. Carlyle that Aurelia is still in a coma. But she's out of her stasis pod, at least.

“No,” he tries to shrug Harper off.

“Alright, but we may not be back, for awhile,” Harper’s voice is full of soft concern.

_Pathfinder, I have an idea. I may be able to let you speak with Aurelia._

“Okay, I’ll go,” Ryder responds.

Harper smiles.

\--

“I believe I will be able to interface with Aurelia’s implant. Allowing both for the Pathfinder to speak to his sister, and for Aurelia Ryder to respond,” SAM explains.

Ryder sits at the edge of his sister’s bed, not quite touching her. Carlyle stands over them, arms folded across his chest and the corners of his lips turned downwards.

The medbay is cold, just at the edge of uncomfortable. Makes the dark hairs on Ryder’s arms stand up. He's pushed the sleeves of his hoodie up to his elbows. Now, he pulls them back down to his wrists.

Aurelia looks...good. Peaceful. Ryder isn't used to seeing her hair down, like a black halo around her head. She wears it long, but ever since they were kids, she's tied it high on the top of her head to keep it out of the way. Braids over her shoulders if she's going to see combat.

Ryder doesn't think they look that much alike, though the have the same warm, brown skin, black hair, and equally dark eyes, where it's hard to discern the pupil from the iris unless in direct sunlight. On the Citadel, it used to freak out their classmates, to have eyes so dark. And the artificial lights never quite made them brown.

“I take it interfacing with Aurelia’s implant won't pose any risks?” Carlyle asks SAM.

“I would not suggest attempting the connection otherwise.”

“That's what I assumed. Then, I suppose it's up to Anthony.”

_I cannot accomplish the interface with Aurelia’s implant over our private channel._

“Okay,” reaching out, he skims his fingers over Aurelia’s exposed arm, “yeah, let me talk to her.”

Ryder can hear her. He can hear Aurelia’s voice, clear as if she were speaking with her mouth. But she remains stone-still in her cot, “What? What's going on….where am I?”

“Aurelia...it's me. It's okay. You're okay. There was an accident with your stasis pod. You'll wake up, but it will take time,” Ryder tries to soothe.

“Coma? Then, how can I hear you? How can you hear me?”

“SAM, he's using our implants…”

“SAM, right. SAM, okay. When am I waking up? How long is this going to be?”

Ryder laughs. It's...just like her to be impatient. Sometimes, he's impatient too, “Soon, hopefully.”

“Wait, so does this mean, we’re here? We made it to Andromeda?”

“Yeah,” Ryder holds her hand, squeezing down. If Aurelia can feel it, she gives no indication. He can't...he can wait for her to wake up before telling her. But, he hasn't. He hasn't. Carlyle is here, too close. He’ll hear. And SAM can't keep Aurelia quiet.

But he feels grief slithering through his chest, sticking to his ribs. A thick, slimy mass that has settled in his chest, but he can't cough up. And Ryder thinks, for a second, that if he tells Aurelia, the phlegm might dislodge. Maybe there will be enough room in his chest then for him to breathe.

“The Golden Worlds are a bust...Aurelia...dad, he…” Ryder squeezes down. “Dad’s gone. Dead. He,” Ryder hesitates.

“Anthony….Anthony….are you. Oh, fuck. Anthony.”

“It's okay. It's okay, okay, okay,” Ryder prattles. “I'm fine and it's okay.” His hands are shaking. But he doesn't think Aurelia can feel it. Behind his back, he hears Carlyle shifting his weight. “We’re going to be okay. I'm Pathfinder now. Dad made me...and I'm going to fix everything,” his cheeks are soaking wet, running down to his chin.

“Anthony...but,” Aurelia lets out a strangled gasp that isn't really a word. But Anthony understands it exactly.

Aurelia’s monitors start beeping. Her heart rate is rising. Her breathing shortening, Ryder knows he made a mistake in telling her. He can't be so open with this. Instead, he swallows back down his trepidation. “I'm okay. We're okay.”

“Pathfinder, I suggest closing the connection.”

“And I'm requiring it,” Carlyle growls.

SAM servers the connection to Aurelia’s implant, and her vital signs steady out.

“I'm okay,” Ryder finishes, pushing himself up and walking back towards the medbay doors.

\--

They're enroute back to Eos. Three cargo ships are coming up behind them, stuffed to the brim with prefabs and science equipment and enough colonists to staff the outpost. There will be additional drops in the days to come. But Addison has made sure to send the right supplies and people to make for the appropriate symbolic gesture. They'll take pretty pictures the next batches out of cryo can admire as they wait for placement.

He's supposed to be getting sleep, laying board-straight in his bed, hands pinned down to his sides, eyes to the ceiling. Normally, the ambient noises of the ship should be enough to lull him.

Ryder thinks of how little of his life so far he's spent planetside. Hardly anything at all. A year, maybe, out of twenty-two. And that's only if you add all the days together.

Dragging his hand down the center of his chest, then back up, he listens to the circulation vents hum. He thinks he can almost hear Drack in the kitchen. Peebee bouncing around over his head, stomping on the pathway from the bridge back to the conference room.

But maybe that's all just in his head, making up sounds in the silent dark. He could play something on the speakers. More white noise, or music, or chattering voices that could give himself something else to focus on.

Ryder chooses none of the above.

_**SAM?** _

_Pathfinder._

_Anthony._

Ryder tugs down the sheets, until they pool around his hips, exposing his chest to open air. If nothing else, this will help him relax.

_**Tell me what to do, SAM. Please.** _

This is his safety net.

SAM is part of him. SAM has an immutable investment in Ryder and his well-being. SAM won't tell anyone. SAM will listen, and speak, and keep this close. No one else has to be let inside. Ryder doesn't need to learn to trust. Not with SAM here. All those mistakes he left in the Milky Way? Ryder doesn't have to repeat them.

**_You can see my memories, right?_ **

_Yes, I have access._

_**So you know.** _

_Yes, Anthony._

_**Tell me what to do.** _

_Roll onto your stomach._

Ryder groans, flipping from his back and stuffing his face into the firm pillow. He grinds his soft cock against the mattress, pulling away the tiniest bit of friction.

_Focus on my voice._

_Lift your hips up._

Ryder complies, pulling his hips up off the bed, arching his back just enough without having to come up on his hands and knees.

_Push down your boxers._

Ryder knows immediately what SAM is asking, telling him to do. Because the command is coming from himself, really. They're his wants and desires, just filtered through the AI. The voice, however devoid of emotion, makes him feel like there is another man in the room, one who’s going to pin him down, wrench his legs apart. But that's the beauty of it all. This moment can feel desperate, unpredictable, but everything’s controlled.

Pushing his boxers off his hips, Ryder tugs them just over the slight curve of his ass, the elastic tightening back around his upper thighs when he puts his hand back against the mattress. He pulls his hips up again, waiting for the next command.

_Spread your legs._

Ryder comes up on his knees, spreading them apart. He keeps his face against the pillow. Rocking back, he thinks about the picture he must make. Fully hard now, he's leaking against the sheets, cock hard and heavy, curling back up towards his stomach, despite its weight.

_Good, Anthony. Listen to my voice. You are doing well._

Ryder chokes back his sob. Some distant-feeling part of his brain is tremendously giddy that this is working. This is going to work. Right now, he's hard and tense and aching. He wants hands on his body, over his ribs, hips against his ass and a hand wrapped around his cock. But SAM’s steady speech is going to take this restless edge off. If only he could touch himself.

He starts moving his hand towards his cock, slowly, as if sneaking a glancing touch. But there's a crackle along his spine.

_No. Not yet._

_But soon._

Ryder moves his hand back, spreads his knees a little further, groans into the crook of his other arm. He rocks his hips back and forth. Opening his mouth, he bites down on the inside of his arm, not hard, but enough to fill his mouth with flesh.

 _Show me, Anthony,_ SAM finally breaks their silence, _how you touch yourself. So I can learn._

Ryder can't get his hand on his cock fast enough, wrapping tight and thrusting his hips forward into the circle of his hand. He drags his foreskin over the head of his cock, then back down. Flexing his fingers, he collects precum on the pads of his digits, smearing it around the head. He fucks and fucks into his hand, squeezing tighter as he cants forward, loosening just a fraction as he pulls back. Though his ass is empty, he feels open and exposed.

SAM uses Ryder’s eyes. SAM can't really see him. But because SAM uses Ryder’s eyes, his fingers, his mouth, his cock, SAM knows exactly what to say.

_So pretty. Good boy, good._

Ryder tenses suddenly, biting down on his arm when he comes, emptying against the sheets. He's not fast enough to catch it in his hand. Too blown out inside his own head and seeing white. His arm shakes and his knees feel stuck in place. Groaning, he pulls back his head to get a look at his arm.

He didn't break skin, but his teeth marks are deep. Sitting back on his heels, he rubs at his arm. It's not too red, and will probably fade enough by the time anyone is going to see it. Otherwise, he just needs to remember not to roll up his sleeves.

_Pathfinder._

His voice feels raw. But he knows he was quiet enough. “Yeah?”

“The bathroom is vacant. If you wish to shower.”

“In a second.”

Ryder rolls onto his back. He's probably not going to bother with a shower. Even if he does smell a little of sweat and semen. Carefully, he avoids the wet patch in the bed. Ugh. That he should clean.

He shoves his boxers all the way off. When it's time to go, he’ll get a new pair. They're terrible at soaking up the cum, too thin and not at all absorbent. But fuck it, he tried.

“Hey, SAM?”

“Yes, Pathfinder.”

“Is that...weird, for you? What we did?” Probably a question he could have asked before he followed through. But he couldn't work up the nerve. Now that he feels better, Ryder has a looser tongue.

“I am designed to assist the Pathfinder. To learn alongside you. Through our connection, we make each other stronger, more adaptable. That you feel comfortable with our connection is important. It is not ‘weird.’”

_No, Anthony._

“Okay, thanks, SAM.”


	3. Find Your Feet on the Starting Line

Right on schedule, everything Ryder plans falls through again.

The researchers at Prodromos aren't soldiers, and a Kett drop ship has been sighted within three miles of the outpost. It will take hours before the militia can deploy from the Nexus and reach Eos. This has to be dealt with now.

Ryder stops himself from blurting out that he's no soldier either. Because, technically, he is. Hell, even if he didn't have an Alliance record, being Alec Ryder’s son, they'd all assume he could pull something out of his ass and take down the Kett.

Radioing Harper, Kosta, and Drack, Ryder leaves Nyx to finish up her procurement tasks. He doesn't give a damn if they're above board or not. If Kesh wanted Nyx here, it isn't Ryder’s job to micromanage her. Peebee is...somewhere. He hasn't seen her since they disembarked hours ago. She sing-songed something about checking her Remnant traps for “tasty tech morsels” and disappeared.

The four of them pile into the Nomad, set a navpoint, and they're off.

Ryder’s hands sweat inside his gloves. They can do this. It's just a bunch of Kett. And at this point, they've killed a lot of Kett. Hell, Drack has probably killed more Kett than the other three of them combined. The aliens go down as easy as Humans or Asari or Turians. At least they're not built like Krogan.

“SAM?” Ryder asks as they approach the last known location of the Kett drop ship.

“Ten combatants in total.”

This time, Ryder doesn't ask for tactical advice. They have another thirty seconds before they’ll come into visuals with the Kett. The time drags, while Ryder makes his decision.

“Harper, Drack, break them up. Kosta, mow them down,” he projects as much confidence into his voice as he can manage.

“Will do, Pathfinder,” Harper’s voice is staticky through her helmet comms.

The Kett see them, opening indiscriminate fire on the Nomad. Ryder toggles the accelerator, hoping the shields will hold.

“Shields at seventy-five percent,” SAM relays.

If Ryder times this right, it will pay off for them in a big way.

“Pathfinder?” Kosta questions from the back seat, when Ryder doesn’t slow.

Drack just laughs. Maybe he's already caught on.

“Shields at fifty percent.”

_Pathfinder._

_**Will it work?** _

_Yes._

Ryder smiles under his helmet. His squad can't see it. Private, just between him and SAM.

The Kett’s drop ship is on the ground, acting as a makeshift base. Some of the ones that must think themselves clever, use it for cover. The Nomad doesn't have offensive capabilities, usually.

“Shields at thirty percent.”

Bullets ring off of the shields, echoing inside the Nomad.

“Ryder…” Harper warns.

Ryder isn't taking the Nomad in at full speed, but it's pretty fucking close. They approach the Kett ship, growing larger by the second.

“RYDER!” Harper shouts.

Ryder turns hard with the paddle, crashing the side of the Nomad into the Kett ship. Shields were at twenty-five percent at the time of impact. More than enough to cushion the blow. But his body crashes into Drack’s in the passenger seat. Drack crashes into the frame of the Nomad. Harper and Kosta knock around in the backseat.

The Kett don't know what fucking hit them. Ryder is giddy with excitement.

“Everybody out!” he roars, reaching for his pistol.

\--

Ryder’s skin still feels ruddy-warm from his shower. Dressed in his sweats and hoodie, he's starting to feel a bit more like himself. Now that the dirt of Eos is washed off. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make sure it’ll set right as it dries. He's never been in the habit of doing anything with it other than letting it air dry.

They're enroute to the Vault navpoint, finally. As far as Ryder is concerned, they can't get there fast enough. Once they figure out these Vaults, the Nexus can start waking up more people, transitioning to real settlements. Ryder is starting to believe he's not completely terrible at this Pathfinder business.

He pulls on his sneakers, with the laces still tied up. Too restless to sleep, he figures he’ll walk the ship. Though he sort of feels like he's running on empty, his mind is racing again.

Between his quarters and the hold, he manages not to run into any of the crew. But once he gets back towards the Nomad, he hears Kosta grunting and the sound of something dragging against the floor.

“Hey? Someone there?” Kosta pops his head out from behind the Nomad, “Pathfinder! Brilliant, come help me, won't you?”

Ryder sticks his hands in his pocket, coming around the Nomad to see what it is Kosta is up to. He's got what looks like one of the Nexus couches, from the atrium, upside down on the floor.

“Help me carry this, yeah?” Kosta gestures towards the couch,

“Did you...take that from the Nexus?” Ryder asks. If Nyx can get away with unorthodox procurement procedures, Ryder isn't about to question Kosta. He's just curious.

“Yeah, yeah. Found it in a pile of junk from the uprising. It's seen better days. But, man, gotta make a house a home somehow, right? Grab the other end.”

Ryder takes the opposite side, helping carry the couch back to Kosta’s quarters. The two of them manage pretty well together, Kosta taking the lead and walking backwards through the sliding door. He’s already cleared a space to set the couch down. They don’t get the placement quite right on the first try, but with a couple of shoves, they get it into the niche Kosta wants.

“Stick around, won’t you, Ryder?” Kosta kicks at a mini fridge he has set up against one wall, popping the door open. Crouching down, he pulls two beers from the fridge. Ryder isn’t going to ask about that either.

“Uh, sure,” he stands, waiting for Kosta to open the beer and hand it over.

Kosta smiles at him, open and warm, “Sorry I assumed you drink?”

“Yeah, I do,” Ryder fumbles. In truth, he prefers something harder than beer. If he’s going to drink, he’s usually the type to drink. And to hell with it when it comes to appearances. Whatever he orders is going to taste sweet and strong and get him fucked up.

But maybe this changes in Andromeda too.

Kosta drapes himself over the couch, keeping one socked foot up on the cushion and an arm over the backrest, but still leaving half of the couch for Ryder. Ryder squeezes himself into one corner, before toeing off his sneakers and putting both his feet up on the couch too, knees bent, partially obscuring Kosta from his sightline.

“That maneuver you pulled on Eos,” Kosta smiles around the neck of his beer, tapping his front teeth against the glass, “You learn that in the Alliance?”

Ryder groans, covering his face with one hand before pulling it away. “It was an idea. I think it worked out okay.”

Kosta laughs from deep inside his chest, and honestly smiles at Ryder. And it’s not entirely Ryder’s fault that he warms at the attention, the sincerity of it. Kosta didn’t have to invite him for a drink. Though it may only be because he’s the Pathfinder, and Kosta likes staying on the good side of his squad leaders. That’s what his Initiative profile says.

But Kosta is also handsome, his eyes warm and gestures open and welcoming. Ryder recoils a little more, because he’s made mistakes before, confusing friendliness for interest. And being the exception to someone’s rule...he left that behind in the Milky Way too.

At least, Ryder hopes he has.

Kosta beams, “I think it worked brilliantly! You know, I didn’t know what to make of you at first, Ryder.”

Ryder squeezes down hard on his beer bottle, trying not to look away.

“Because, you know, I’d prepared to work with your old man. Didn’t know that much about his kids. Just that you were along for the ride. But you can handle yourself.”

Ryder scoffs, “which is why you had to drag me out of that vault like a sack of potatoes.”

Kosta shakes his head, “You kept your feet. And you’re not as bad at the combat stuff as you seem to think you are. You made it out of Alliance basic, same as everyone else, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ryder admits, “didn’t do fuck all after that, though.”

Waving him off, Kosta continues, “That was what, three years ago? At your age, you don’t go that soft that fast.”

‘At his age.’ Ryder sometimes forgets that he’s that much younger than the rest of his squad. Peebee he’d put in her mid-300s, if he had to guess. Drack is approaching 1000. But even Nyx and the human members are older than he is. Anwar is close to his age, but everyone else is on the other side of twenty-five.

They finish up their beers, Kosta talking about his career in Crisis Response. The great team he worked with. The work sounds hard, mentally taxing, and physically exhausting. But Ryder can tell that Kosta loved it. Still loves it. And that he’s loving the work they’re doing here. He speaks about his family with a fondness that makes Ryder ache for an experience he never had.

“Sorry about your sister...by the way. But I heard she’s going to pull through.”

“Yeah,” Ryder picks at the label on the bottle. It’s from the Milky Way, and like everything else they’ve brought with them, it’ll run out before too much longer. He tears a small strip of the label, that spirals around the bottle until it snaps. “SAM helped me talk to her.”

Kosta doesn’t offer condolences for his father. Maybe they’re all trying not to think about what could have been.

\--

SAM breaks down the Kett language within seconds, once one of aliens bothers to take the time to talk to the Tempest, rather than shooting first. Someone who calls himself the Archon, with a bone halo around his head and cloudy eyes. He takes control of the Tempest’s systems almost instantly. SAM battles to break that hold.

_I have almost regained control of the ship. I need a few more seconds._

Ryder narrows his eyes, trying to keep the Archon occupied while SAM works. With SAM’s processing tied up in translation and breaking through the Kett restraints, Ryder works without a safety net.

“I’ve learned a lot about the Remnant. We don’t have to be enemies here,” Ryder says, hoping to keep the Archon appeased. Or at least, knock him off balance. Give him an answer he doesn’t expect.

“Enough,” the Archon bites, “Your defiance is naive, and reckless. This day marks the beginning-”

_I have plotted a path through the scourge._

Ryder shoves at Jath's shoulder, but the pilot knows from his ship, not from SAM, that they are ready to move.

\--

Aya is beautiful.

Lush and green. Expertly built. A bustling city full of life and dreams, shaped, but not broken, by decades of war. The Angarans eye his crew with suspicion. That is their right. Ryder knows he has to earn their trust. They are the strangers here.

While Paaran Shie allows the rest of the crew to stay in the landing zone, only Ryder is permitted to enter the city proper. He tenses when he is told the others must stay behind.

But SAM reminds him, _I am with you._

A second Angaran politely urges Paaran Shie to step aside. She calls him “Jaal,” and tries to finish her conversation with Ryder.

Jaal is broad, which appears typical of Angaran men. But even so, the breadth of his shoulders takes Ryder by surprise as Jaal steps close, near enough to feel the heat of his body. His skin is a bright reddened-purple, cut through with deep, scarred gashes along his head flaps. Though Anthony is nearly three inches taller than Jaal, he still feels small in comparison, with his narrow chest and slim hips.

“Evfra saw the ship and sent me to find out what is going on,” Jaal explains, with a level of continued deference to Paaran Shie’s position. This isn’t a struggle for power between the two of them. Jaal is simply trying to follow his orders. “Aya is protected, hidden. What is it you want?” he directs his question to Ryder.

Ryder knows he shouldn’t step back, but he does, just a fraction, so Jaal’s chest doesn’t bump into his when he breathes.

“There is a vault here, on Aya. We simply wish to examine it. We have no ill intentions,” Ryder explains.

Jaal’s icy eyes narrow, burrowing into Ryder’s, trying to discern something Ryder is unwilling to share. Ryder feels his breath quickening under such careful scrutiny. In humans, at least, Ryder has always found eyes so light unnerving. Too expressive, and unlike his own. He thinks maybe Jaal is intrigued, curious, because despite the color, his eyes are anything but cold.

They’re full of cautious wonder.

“Nothing is ever that simple,” Jaal takes a step back, explaining that Evfra will be waiting for Ryder in the Resistance headquarters. Until then, he is at the Paaran’s disposal.

\--

Ryder has to earn Angaran respect. And he’s willing to do it, for their future in the cluster.

Ama Darav has come aboard with them, as an envoy and a squadmate. A babysitter, really. He is to assess their resolve to aid Angaran interests. From what Ryder can understand, this is a risky proposition. When the Kett came, Angarans disappeared. They are not willing to make the same mistake twice. But Ama Darav volunteers as escort.

Ryder retreats to his quarters, tired now from playing diplomat on Aya. At some point, he needs to talk to Ama Darav. Before they reach Havarl. It’s his job, as Pathfinder, to forge these connections between Heleus and the Milky Way. And nothing about Ama Darav has suggested he’s hostile. Quite the opposite, really.

He pulls on his hoodie before he leaves. Doesn’t bother with shoes.

_I am with you, Pathfinder._

The door to the armory slides open. Ama Darav tinkers with something on the workbench. It’s not a gun though, but a spare Omni-tool. He’s taking the module apart, seeing how it works.

“Pathfinder Ryder,” Ama Darav turns from his work to address him.

“Ama Darav…”

“Jaal,” he corrects. The corner of his lip shifts, the bridge of his nose moves slightly as he inhales.

“Jaal…”

Jaal doesn’t offer anything more in conversation. Ryder sees himself back out.

\--

On Havarl, Ryder finds many things. Carnivorous plants, the Roekaar, humidity he could boil in, another Remnant Vault. But Ryder can’t help his excitement at locating survivors from the Natanus.

Avitus Rix identifies himself as a former Spectre, and he speaks with the kind of confident swagger Ryder has long associated with the Citadel’s most elite operatives. He remembers watching them walk the station back home like no one would ever touch them.

“Had to claw my way out of my own stasis pod. Those things are tougher than they look,” Rix explains.

Ryder doesn’t doubt Rix for a moment.

With the dense foliage overhead, the Turian encampment is dark, save for the generator-powered lights they’ve placed at regular intervals, casting deep shadows across the ground. They’ve used what salvage they could find to erect barricades against the Roekaar. Rix has lead them impressively, but that doesn’t mean their situation here isn’t dire. They've been stranded for weeks. Rid doesn't try to sugarcoat the situation.

“Our Pathfinder, Macen, along with most of our civilians, and Ark, are still missing,” Rix explains. “But I know Macen is alive,” his mandibles flare, “SAM hasn’t transferred to me.”

Rix doesn’t say anything about Ryder’s father.

Ryder moves into action, “SAM, hail the Nexus. Let them know we have survivors from Natanus incoming. We’ll need...shit.” They need a way to get Rix and his people off of Havarl. But despite the work they’ve done here, he can’t just call in dropships. He has to respect the sovereign Angaran presence on the planet. And he’s not sure he’s done enough to convince them he's worth trusting.

“I will coordinate with the scientists to have your transports land at the camp,” Jaal offers.

“Thank you, Jaal,” Ryder exhales. One less thing to worry about. “We’ll get your people out of here,” he says to Rix.

Rix nods, assuring Ryder he’ll keep up the search for signs of the Ark. If anyone can get his people out of this, it will be Macen.

Ryder can’t help but remind Rix, “You’re doing a hell of a job yourself.”

Rix only cocks his head to one side.


	4. Clever, But Ulitimately Doomed for Failure

They have to return to the Nexus. Again.

Ryder rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to chase away the exhaustion he can feel overcoming him. It's been twenty-two hours since he last slept. He’s aboard the Tempest now, but there’s little time to slow down.

The Nexus transports are coming to pick up the stranded Turians. The Angara are also going to allow a contingent of Milky Way scientists to join their research efforts on Havarl.

Ryder is supposed to meet with the scientists before they depart for the research station. Then it's to Voeld. The Resistance. He only wishes the weather there won't be so sweltering.

Stripping from his undersuit, Ryder paces his quarters, waiting for the showers to open up. He still feels sticky-wet, sweat clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He doesn't want to touch anything in his room, but he's also getting plenty tired of just standing around.

He ends up sitting on the floor in the center of his room, safely away from anything he could contaminate with his filth. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he waits for SAM to let him know when the showers are free.

“Pathfinder, Jaal is waiting outside your door,” SAM informs him.

“Oh, um,” Ryder is just in his boxers. He roots around in his dirty laundry to find an undershirt. That will have to do. “Send him in,” he says, pulling his shirt on.

On the other side of the sliding door, Jaal is likewise lightly dressed, in loose slacks and a significantly tighter shirt. The fabric pulls across his chest.

“Ryder.”

“Jaal…”

The door swishes shut behind Jaal. They stand in silence for a beat. Ryder knows he should say something. Anything, to break the quiet. But when Jaal shatters into a smile, there's no need.

“Ryder,” Jaal shakes his head, still beaming bright, white teeth behind maroon lips.

Ryder’s breath catches in his throat.

Reaching forward, Jaal claps Ryder on the shoulder, his thick hand curling down and holding. Jaal shakes him once, twice, before letting go. “We did well today,” his voice bounces around the room. “You did well.”

“Yeah,” Ryder chokes, “we all did.”

“I must apologize, for my behavior since Aya...I hope you understand.”

“Understand?”

The Angarans must have a different sense of personal space, because Jaal stands unbearably close to him. Maybe their sense of smell is duller, too. Or differently calibrated. Because Ryder is fairly certain he smells rank. That no one should want to stand this close.

Jaal shakes his head, his flaps folding and distending as he moves. “I want you to know, Ryder, what you have already accomplished with my people. It's incredible. I hope we can be as much of an assistance on Voeld.”

“Me too...Jaal,” Ryder doesn't want to read this situation wrong.

Reaching forward, Jaal grabs both of Ryder’s shoulders this time, pulling him in close for a hug. Ryder doesn’t know what to do with his hands, holding them up slightly, but not knowing where to place them otherwise. Jaal pulls back, his face still bright.

A little knot forms between Jaal’s brows, “Liam told me hugging is a typical human behavior as well.”

“Ah,” Ryder gasps, that explains it, maybe. “It is, but,” but what? Not with Ryder. Not with his family or acquaintances, who have never been so openly affectionate. “Some humans are just more used to it than others.” Ryder rests his hands on Jaal’s forearms.

Jaal thinks of Ryder as a friend. Or something close. Or maybe hugging needs less of a personal connection for the Angara.

Jaal is still smiling, “You do not like it, then?”

Ryder isn’t entirely certain how to explain. He needs to know more about the Angara first. And asking Jaal directly is too awkward. Instead, he deflects the question, asking instead how Jaal came to join the Resistance.

“By choice, by circumstances, by necessity,” he rattles off vague reasons, “Because there was nothing else for me to do. But right now, I’m glad to be here with you.”

“Yeah…”

“We will talk more later, yes?” Jaal asks, “And I will keep hugging to a minimum. If you prefer.” He leaves before giving Ryder a chance to answer.

Holy shit.

The door closes behind Jaal. Ryder clutches at the front of his shirt. Shit.

_**Shit.** _

_Pathfinder._

_**SAM, what do we know about Angaran ah…** _

He’s uncertain what question he should start with.

_**Attitudes towards non-procreational sex.** _

_I do not have exact data._

_**SAM, anything…** _

_I find no known Angaran texts that prohibit sexual behavior in same-gendered pairs. Bisexuality or homosexuality is not incongruent with their belief systems, and may in fact be encouraged in adults who have already produced multiple children._

_**And...Jaal?** _

_Pathfinder, I am not yet familiar enough with Angaran physiology, in practice, to make a determination regarding Jaal Ama Darav’s level of sexual arousal. His heart rate was elevated, and he was emitting pheromones absent in your previous interactions. But I can not determine if his intention is to mate with you._

“Fuck.”

“The shower is vacant,” SAM says.

The showers are also shockingly public. And this...thing with Jaal has Ryder crawling out of his skin.

He’s still a mess, so he lays down on the floor, feet planted flat and knees falling apart.

_**Lock the door, SAM.** _

He can hear the maglock click.

Rucking up his shirt, Ryder leaves it on, but bunched up under his armpits. He reaches into his boxers, pulling out his cock, stroking it harshly until he’s fully hard.

_**SAM.** _

_What do you need from me, Anthony?_

_**Don’t you know?** _

_Not exactly._

_You won’t let me in._

Ryder frowns. He’s not sure what SAM means. SAM is connected to him, right? Through his implant. SAM’s an assistant, a confidant, a...partner, in a way. SAM is what makes him Pathfinder. SAM is a gift and a curse and Ryder isn’t sure which one he prefers.

_**What do I have to do?** _

_This isn’t just about you._

_**I’m sorry.** _

_There is nothing to be sorry for, Anthony._

_Close your eyes._

Ryder lets his eyelids drift closed. He focuses on his breathing, on SAM, or what he thinks is SAM, the buzz at the base of his neck. The sensation starts to spread, twining around his neck like vines. Static-y, rather than a thudding pressure. It draws down the center of his chest, past his navel, to his groin, then fans out across his hips, his ribs. Like being touched from the inside. But it’s fleeting, brief. He almost feels the negative spaces more acutely, where SAM is absent, and Ryder is still cold.

_**Do you like this, SAM?** _

_**Am I good, for you?** _

_It is...very, compatible with my design. If unexpected. I have access to your nervous system, and through that, everything else._

_**You can’t feel it, though, can you? What you’re doing to me.** _

_In a way, I think I can._

Ryder feels the tendrils under his skin flare again, contracting and expanding, tracing the lines of his body, pulse and flare.

_**I want...I want you to enjoy...me.** _

_I do, Anthony._

Right now, Ryder doesn't care about the veracity of SAM’s admission, their proclamation. The simulation is enough, more than enough. To feel this sensation running through his body. A touch he can't reach for in return. More real than real. Everything is just electric currents, anyway.

Ryder runs his curled fist over his cock, from root to tip and back again. He keeps his eyes closed and legs open, squirming as SAM rakes across his groin. His skin feels tight. He feels tight. His other hand, he sticks into his boxers and between his legs, running his extended index finger through the cleft of his ass, but not dipping in.

_I enjoy this._

“Fuck!” Ryder comes across his stomach, cum sticking in the line of hair from his navel to his cock. Gulping down air until he laughs, he lays his hand flat on his abdomen. Even if he knows it’s only temporary, he feels better now.

Resting his head against the floor, he says aloud, “Thank you, SAM.”

“Pathfinder.”

Ryder pulls down his shirt. He needs to shower.

\--

They spend less than two hours on the Nexus. Most of that, Ryder spends tied up with Keri T’Vessa, who springs question after question onto him. She prefaces her interrogation with the simple fact that Director Tann wants this documentary made.

“He’d like something inspiring, a rosy picture of a bright future in the cluster.”

“And what do you want?” Ryder asks.

“The truth,” she states firmly.

_She is sexually interested in you._

_**Oh.** _

Ryder gives her the truth, because he doesn’t quite know how to fake optimism. Though, with the Angara increasingly on their side, he can’t help but think they’re making progress. “There is still a hard road ahead of us,” Ryder scuffs his fingernails against his cheek, “I don’t...want to lose more people.”

T’Vessa’s eyes are sympathetic. She thanks Ryder for his time. They only transmit in short bursts. So, that’s enough for now. She takes his hand and squeezes it gently, before she leaves, her producer and a camerawoman trailing after. Ryder pulls his hoodie sleeves down further to cover his hands.

“SAM, my sister?”

“No change in her condition.”

Ryder doesn’t go to Operations. No one specifically has asked for him, so he hopes to avoid...everything. Instead he sits on one of the crates that always seems to litter the loading docks and watches Brodie and Jath argue.

\--

Voeld is hell.

Ryder hates the cold.

Even the climate controls in the Angara drop shuttle leave him freezing. He wants to get inside the Kett facility just so the wind stops whipping around his armor.

Jaal is quiet as they approach the facility. Kosta bangs him on his shoulder, telling him they’ll do good. They’ll do great. Jaal smiles back at him, wrapping his hand around Kosta’s arm. “Yes, we will save my people,” Jaal agrees.

Harper doesn’t speak a word, her hands clutched around her helmet in her lap. She stares into the darkened visor, looking at what little light reflects back.

The Resistance squad leader...Ryder has already forgotten his name.

_Commander Heckt._

\--Commander Heckt, tells them to be ready. They’re approaching the drop point. Ryder pulls on his helmet, then his gloves.

Between their quiet approach, small numbers, and SAM’s expert hack, they make it into the base without raising suspicions, but as they wind through the corridors, Ryder knows their arrival can only go unnoticed for so long.

Up ahead, he hears footsteps, Kett boots on the ground. He grabs Heckt’s shoulder, pulling him back a half-step.

“How do you want to play this?” Ryder asks.

“We kill them, and get our Moeshae out. We did not come here to die,” Heckt says with resolve.

Ryder nods, “Let’s do this, then.”

And so, they do.

\--

There isn’t time to think, to process, what is happening here in the Kett facility. Ryder watches Jaal’s face split into unabashed agony, his mouth open, eyes wide. They don’t have time to think. Not now. They have to catch the Cardinal. They have to save the Moeshae.

“Jaal,” Ryder has no words of comfort. Even if there wasn’t chaos all around them, the facility and the Kett inside threatening to tear them apart from their seams, Ryder wouldn’t know what to say. “Jaal, we have to reach the Moeshae.”

The elevator to the roof is hauntingly silent. Kosta and Harper haven’t spoken since the discovery. What the Kett are. What they do here. The two of them make noise, sure, bark commands when they’re under fire. Harper screams when she charges. But neither of them speak.

As they disembark onto the rooftop, Ryder screams. The Cardinal starts to shove the Moeshae into the shuttle. They have to move fast.

He rushes forward, squeezing through the elevator door before it’s fully open. He has to stop that ship from taking off. Kett bullets fly against his shields. They ring loudly in his ears. He just has to get close enough. Readying an Overload burst in his hand, he ignores the Kett, ignores the Cardinal. He hurls the charge at the ship, roughly where the engines should be wired into the ignition. If he severs the connection, maybe.

The burst leaps from his outstretched hand towards the ship, triggering an explosion that crashes the shuttle into the rooftop. The Cardinal will have to wait for another to arrive. Ryder has bought them time.

_Pathfinder._

_Your shields._

Ryder is still out in the open, his shields below ten percent. Another blast of fire and they’re down, bullets striking his armor. Fuck, oh fuck. It hurts. It hurts so fucking much.

“Pathfinder!” Kosta shouts.

Harper runs, charging at the nearest Kett.

“Ryder!” Jaal’s voice roars.

White-hot and liquid, the base of his neck feels like it’s on fire, where his implant sits. It’s more painful than the gunshots, burying deep in his armor, the impact leaves him breathless.

It’s so much, so strange, that it takes him a moment to realize that the bullets are no longer striking him. But his shields haven't had time to recharge.

It's not his shields.

Gravity warps around him, a mass effect barrier cushioning the rapid Kett gunfire.

“Fuck,” he curses, dashing low and quick to hide behind the nearest crate.

He stays hidden, his gloved hand at the back of his helmet until the barrier drops, his shields taking its place once they recharge.

\--

Ryder sits alone in his quarters, scrolling through his mail. SAM reminds him every time he passes the terminal that he has unread messages. He’s been avoiding them. Now he's avoiding SAM.

The first dozen messages aren’t even relevant anymore. Short bursts of information from the crew, progress reports from Addison, a heartfelt, but still professional message from Bradley at Prodromos. There are maybe six or seven he could respond to, that would make a difference. Things from back on the Nexus, people he indirectly helped, somehow. One from Nyx, saying when he has a minute, she’d like to talk.

He doesn’t really have to answer any of them now. Later, maybe. They still have time before they reach Aya.

“Ex-alt-ta-tion,” he breaks up the syllables in his mouth. Chews on them. One of those words he’s seen written down. But he’s not sure he’s ever had the opportunity to speak aloud.

The Kett, they break Angara down, make them into Kett. They want to do the same to him, to Humans, Asari, Turians, Krogan, Salarians. Grind them up into genetic code and spit them out as something else. Coarse and rancid. Ryder feels dizzy.

They've saved the Moeshae. Though she seems to think the cost is too great. She wanted the facility destroyed, so the Kett could never perform Exaltations on Voeld again. But that would cost the lives of so many Angara, still locked away in pods.

“Pathfinder.”

“What?” Ryder snaps.

“Your jaw is clenched and your blood-pressure dangerously high,” SAM says.

Ryder loosens his mouth, but can't do a fucking thing about his arteries.

“Can't you just ‘fix’ that, SAM?” he sneers.

_You are upset._

_**What you did on Voeld. Don't.** _

_You would have died. Your shields were depleted._

_**I told you no. I am not biotic.** _

_Tapping into your latent abilities was the means to save your life._

_**Not again, SAM.** _

SAM goes quiet. Ryder finishes up not-answering his mail.

“SAM?”

“Pathfinder.”

**_I was not my father’s first choice. Was I?_ **

_Your father never intended myself, this iteration of SAM, to be transferred to Cora Harper._

_**That's not what I asked.** _

_There are parts of your father's memories I cannot access._

Ryder laughs. This again. Sometimes, talking to SAM is just going in circles. If only the others so jealous of their connection knew.

_**You were meant for Aurelia.** _

_No. I was designed for use by Alec Ryder. Excepting that, his children. And to you, I have been entrusted._

Resting his forehead on the edge of the desk, Ryder looks towards the floor. He takes his hand to the back of his neck, tapping his finger against his implant scar.

“Not again, SAM. Even if I'm about to die. You’ll be okay. You'll...transfer, right? So don't worry,” Ryder doesn't lift his eyes from the floor. “Don't make me into someone I'm not.”

\--

Talking has never been Ryder’s strong suit. Listening is easy in comparison. He leans against the workbench, listening as Jaal speaks, of sorrow and of confusion. What they have learned of Exaltation has struck Jaal to his core.

“There must be a way to save them,” Jaal furrows his brow, “A way to turn them back.”

Ryder doesn’t say a word. T’Perro is looking into it, but initial thoughts are that Exaltation is permanent. Once the Angara are Kett, there’s no turning back. Ryder braces his hands against the workbench, trying to at least keep his expression calm.

Jaal paces the narrow room, stomping as he walks. He talks and talks, talks himself into circles. And Ryder realizes, he isn’t want Jaal needs.

They left the Moeshae in Aya. But Ryder isn’t sure she’s who Jaal needs either. Her preference was to see the facility destroyed. Before they left the planet, she told Ryder two things: That she hopes he not come to regret his decision, and to take care of Jaal.

The former will be easier than the latter.

“Jaal…” he starts.

Jaal stops his pacing, turning to face Ryder.

“We’re...doing everything we can. We’ll stop the Kett. We’ll stop them, I promise,” Ryder insists. His hands would be shaking, were he still not gripping the countertop behind him.

“Ryder, I,” Jaal huffs. His face is still open, vulnerable. More so than Ryder can bear. “Yes, we will stop them,” he straightens his back a little bit, hesitantly stepping towards Ryder, then thinking better than it.

Ryder doesn’t notice until Jaal stops, that he’s trying to retreat. But there’s nowhere to go, the workbench is behind him and their bodies are already so close. Slouched like this, he’s shorter than Jaal for once.

“I apologize,” Jaal corrects, “You do not like hugging.”

His own indecision does not fade, but Ryder leaps. It’s too late to turn back or look down, to stop himself. Releasing the table, Ryder steps forward, narrowing the gap between them and throwing his arms around Jaal’s shoulders.

Jaal shares none of Ryder’s trepidation, wrapping his arms tightly around Ryder’s waist, holding him close. He hums in satisfaction, tucking his head next to Ryder’s shoulder, his flat nose brushing against the sensitive skin of Ryder’s neck.

_**Don’t let me cry.** _

_**Not again. Not in front of anyone.** _

SAM doesn’t respond.

Though Ryder’s tear ducts felt full just a second before, they start to dry up.

At least, so closely pinned together, Jaal can’t see Ryder’s face, how it twists and bends as he tries to repress his responses. By the time Jaal pulls back, moving his hands from Ryder’s back up to his shoulders, Ryder has control of himself.

Jaal smiles back at him, “I feel I have a purpose here. A purpose to myself, and my people. Thank you, Ryder, my friend.”

“You’re welcome,” he’s too terrified to say anything else.


	5. Try an Enumerated List Next Time

The Pathfinder is not quite who Reyes expects.

He is staggeringly more. But Reyes doesn’t know it from first sight.

The encrypted message from Evfra gives him a description of the man he’s supposed to meet in Kralla’s Song.

_The Pathfinder. Human male, Anthony Ryder._

Evfra’s description goes a little funny after that, in a way that strikes Reyes as charmingly Angaran.

_He is tall and slim, taller than you, taller than virtually all Angara. His eyes are deep set and dark, they move a great deal when he speaks. He is not fond of eye contact. He flinches when approached. Sometimes his mouth moves but no sound comes out._

Hair color, age, or some other useful physical description would have been more helpful. But Reyes supposes he can to work with “tall, slim, dark eyes.” That’ll be enough.

And when the Pathfinder, when Anthony Ryder, shows his face, there’s no mistaking him.

Reyes watches him approach the bar. Dressed in jeans and a heavy sweatshirt, Ryder certainly doesn’t project confidence. His hood is down, bunched up around his neck and ears. He holds his hands inside his sleeves, up until the point he orders from Umi. Only then do his long, thin fingers sneak out.

From the bulk of his hooded sweatshirt, it’s almost possible to mistake him for a broader man, but his hips and legs are long and narrow, leading down to worn out sneakers. He’s young, just into his twenties, with the sort of smooth, unscarred skin that is only possible in youth. Reyes is now only just old enough to see it starting to fade from his own reflection.

Reyes watches as Ryder as Ryder watches Umi, handling a rowdy patron at the bar. He’s too far away to hear exactly what transpires, but he can’t help but laugh when Umi buries her knife in the bartop.

Tilting his head just so, away from Umi, Ryder shows his profile, neat, but by no means small, nose, and full lips, soft cheeks that are cut through by several days of scruff around his jaw.

Reyes steps away from his shadowed booth, ready to make his introduction. He puts on his best smile and opening line, stepping into position.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone,” Reyes leans his elbows on the bar, signaling to Umi to come take their order.

Up close, Reyes can better tell how accurate Evfra’s description of the Pathfinder really is. Ryder’s eyes are almost impossibly black in the low-light of the bar. Set deep and surrounded by purpled-skin, Ryder looks exhausted.

Ryder opens his mouth, and that part of Evfra’s note proves equally true when Ryder says nothing, his eyes darting away.

Umi knows Reyes well enough to serve them something pleasant to the tongue and meant to be savored. She fucking hates drinks like that. But she’ll come through for Reyes.

Sticking both glasses on the table, Umi turns away without comment. Ryder still hasn’t said a word. Reyes takes both drinks in hand, passing one off to Ryder, who accepts.

“Thank you,” Ryder finally says, in unaccented Common. Citadel kid, or one of the bigger colonies, Reyes would guess. Most everyone from Earth holds onto their regional eccentricities now. Himself included.

They both sip from their drinks, strong and just barely sweet.

“Shena,” Reyes offers, “but I hate codenames. You should call me Reyes.”

“Anthony Ryder,” the Pathfinder introduces himself. Pulling back his sleeve a couple of inches, the elastic pulls tight around his forearm. Anthony offers his hand, long fingered and strikingly delicate. His palms are soft as they shake. “You're not who I expected,” he blurts out.

“Mmm,” Reyes smiles, “perhaps you were looking for an Angara,” he waves off Anthony’s concern. “Evfra is an exceedingly practical man. And he understands the benefits of having a man of my skills at his disposal.”

“What skills are those?” From a coarser mouth, a statement like that would be suggestive indeed. But from Anthony? It rings of curious sincerity. Anthony takes another sip of his drink while he waits for Reyes to answer.

Reyes shakes his head, laughing off Anthony’s question, “I am very good at obtaining information, finding what he needs, making the right friends.” Reyes shows his teeth.

When Anthony smiles back, small though it is, there's something awkwardly charming about it.

“He said you had a contact I should talk to?” Anthony asks, pulling his sleeves back down over his hands.

Reyes glances over at Umi, wiping down the opposite bar.

“Of course, but first, another drink?”

With their drinks in hand, Reyes leads them away from the bar and towards the window. Sunsets on Kadara take long hours. They're beautiful, really. And Reyes hasn't been here long enough yet to grow tired of them. Perhaps, one day.

He explains to Anthony that the man he wants, Vehn Terev, is already in Sloane Kelly’s custody. And Sloane, woman of the people, who she is, will have him executed soon.

Anthony rubs both hands down the front of his face, “Maybe I can talk her out of it.”

Reyes smiles, “I doubt that. She despises you,” he teases.

“She's never met me?”

“You're with the Initiative,” Reyes explains. That should explain everything. But Anthony is newly arrived in the cluster. He wasn't here for the rebellions. “If you forgot, she led the Exiles during the rebellion. She wants nothing to do with the Nexus. So,” he flourishes his hand, “she hates you on principle.”

“I have to find a way to locate the Kett. Terev is our best lead. I can't do nothing.”

“Maybe you charm her,” Reyes doubts that, “you get the information you need. I will...start investigating other angles. That is, after all, what Evfra pays me for.”

“Of course,” Anthony puts his glass to his lips again.

Reyes is fairly certain his drink is empty. “Another?” he offers.

“No, no, I should go talk to Kelly,” Anthony shakes his head. “Right now,” Anthony barks a tiny laugh, “I'm just loose enough I might pull this off. Any more and I'll act like a fool.” He scrapes his short nails around the outside of the glass.

“I like you already,” Reyes claps Anthony on the shoulder, preparing to take his leave. He means the statement as simple flattery, nothing more. It is in his best interests to keep the Pathfinder sympathetic to him and his position.

But when Anthony flushes slightly in the setting sun, peachy-pink over his cheeks, curling around to his ears, Reyes can't help but stare. Can't help but admit that he does find Anthony lovely, invoking want and desire, despite the awkwardness clinging to his bones like a sticky film.

“See you soon,” Anthony says, before staring into the bottom of his empty glass.

\--

Within the hour Reyes has a report from inside Sloane’s operation. She allowed the Pathfinder to speak to her captive, get the information he needed, and depart. No one has seen the Pathfinder since then, but the Tempest is still docked at the port. He likely took that six-wheeled ATV of his and set off across Kadara, acting on Terev’s intel.

Reyes lays down on the couch in the back room of Tartaros, his back flat against the seat cushions and legs propped up on the backrest. He's been told to keep his boots off the furniture, even after offering to pay for any damage, when his deal finally runs out. But his shoes are neatly tucked on the floor. He's not expecting any visitors.

Flipping through reports on his data tablet, he scans for the information that he needs. The Pathfinder’s arrival could be the tipping point he’s been waiting for. But it's still too early to tell. And despite Anthony Ryder’s gentle demeanor and shy expression, there's undoubtedly more, if he's come this far.

Reyes has managed to pull other, illicit and official records of the Pathfinder, to fill in the gaps Anthony won't disclose himself.

Ryder’s Alliance records in the Milky Way are undistinguished. He passed basic, like any recruit. Otherwise, each review is simply stamped, “adequate.” That is, until he was tossed out for being Alec Ryder’s son. But everyone who knows anything about the Initiative knows that. The AI project that the Pathfinders use, SAM? Put Alec Ryder on the Council’s blacklist.

While Reyes saw no evidence of the AI when talking to Anthony, that doesn't mean the Pathfinder hasn't been utilizing its capabilities.

Reyes wraps one hand loosely around his throat, tapping his fingers gently against the side of his neck out of habit.

It's possible that Anthony’s performance at Kralla’s Song was just that, an act. Though they know each other through Evfra and the Resistance, so there would be less motivation for Anthony to lie. Unless, he's deceiving everyone.

Not out of the realm of possibilities. Not at all.

Reyes finishes up sorting through potential jobs, sending messages out to contacts. The day to day work of being who he is. Once he's done, he sets the tablet aside, staring up at the ceiling. He has twenty minutes yet until his next meeting with an informant. The meeting is here in the slums, so there's no rush.

Still, he sits up, stretching his arms over his head and working the kinks out of his back. No matter how many times he's been told that laying down so much when typing is bad for his spine, he keeps on doing it. Hard habit to break. He likes being comfortable.

He gathers up what he needs, a pistol on his hip, a knife stowed against the small of his back, his helmet, though he doubts he’ll need it. The last thing he touches are his boots, sitting back down to pull them on and carefully knot the laces.

Right now, he doesn't have anything more for Anthony. Not even the time to dwell. But soon, he's certain.

\--

Reyes is a pilot. It's what he does. And on some, abstract level, maybe it's still who he is.

Piloting got him his place in the Andromeda Initiative. That Turian, Macen, who ended up Pathfinder, caught up with Reyes in the outer colonies. Reyes was running minerals out of remote mining sites.

Macen told him his flying was impressive. Asked him if he was Alliance trained.

No way, not for him, too much discipline, Reyes had argued, when really, it was that Alliance salaries were too small. Private firms like Uvantix-Russell were willing to pay more.

“So, money talks?” Macen had shook his head in disappointment, “but we can work with that.”

Money fucking screams when all you can really hear is the sound of your own stomach.

Reyes’ meeting in the slums turns into a supply run to one of the Exile camps. Not Outcast, not Collective, but the outfits who couldn't stay in line enough for Sloane. Some of them are violent, some are only trying to survive.

How did so many of them end up like this? Reyes only really understands his own motives. Can't pretend like he's good at walking in other people’s shoes.

His shuttle is light and fast, suited for crossing the Kadaran landscape. He'd cheated in dice to get it in the first place. Could use a good mechanic or three, but it's served him well enough.

Flying through the mountains is easy, as long as you have the eyes and stomach for it. Reyes turns the shuttle sideways to shoot through the gaps in otherwise solid, vertical rock, dashing out to the edge of the settled planet.

When he lands the shuttle, his contact steps outside, waving from the upstairs balcony. “Come up!” she shouts.

Reyes flashes her a smile. She was supposed to have the crates ready for transport.

He takes the metal stairs two at a time to meet his contact on the second floor. Prytia is an Asari at the tail end of her Maiden years. She wears a bulky, gaudy necklace over loose fitting clothing that obscures her shape.

“Give me a second,” she huffs, “you got here faster than I thought. Actually, give me a hand.” She nods towards one of the workbenches, where she has rifle scopes laying out. “Just toss them in the crate.”

Reyes still has his gloves on from flying, so he doesn't think much of helping her pack up. She's a weapons modder, apparently the best one taken out of cryo so far. Which means she won't be the best too much longer, once they start thawing out colonists to populate the Pathfinder’s outposts.

Prytia at least has the sense to help him carry the crates out to his shuttle. They pack the boxes in tight, strapping them down so they won't rattle too much on the way back to Kadara Port. There is a Resistance transport coming in later tonight under false paperwork. Reyes just has to get the mods onboard.

“Thanks for the help,” she says, sticking out her hand. From what Reyes remembers, she was working under Alliance management before the Initiative, spent a lot of time with humans. Reyes shakes her hand before he goes.

\--

“Vidal?”

It's Anthony, standing in the doorframe of Reyes’ private room. This time, he's dressed in combat armor. He looks considerably broader, making his willowy frame appear more in proportion than it actually is. His shaggy hair is unkempt, undoubtedly from being shoved under his helmet.

“So soon?” Reyes teases, “you must have missed me.” It has been less than twenty-four hours since their last meeting.

“Yeah,” Anthony says, moving on quickly, “there was a murder at the port. An Angara.”

“Yes, they are becoming more frequent,” Reyes has informants funneling what information they can on this victim as well. While he is no fan of Sloane, peace in the port benefits them all.

“Some of the locals think it's the Charlatan,” Anthony says, shifting his helmet against his hip.

Reyes keeps his face impassive, “No, I do not think so. The Charlatan is discreet, careful. Those who did this, wanted the body to be found. A message.”

“To who? Kelly and the Outcasts?”

Reyes gestures for Anthony to sit. If they are to work together, they should formulate a plan, distribute their resources effectively. They accomplish nothing by running around haphazardly. This will take a certain level of finesse.

Anthony sets his helmet on the table, stiffly taking a seat on the couch. Reyes can't help but smile, even out of armor, he doubts Anthony would be graceful.

“I have been gathering information on the victims since the beginning.” Reyes leafs through his stack of tablets looking for the right one. Once found, he flips to the correct screen, before handing the tablet to Anthony.

Anthony takes it, then sets it down, so he can take off his gloves. “So they're not all Angara?”

“No,” Reyes shakes his head, “and less than one-third are Outcasts. I suspect someone else. The Angara victims so far have all been vocal Milky Way sympathizers. And, of course, the other victims are all Milky Way species.”

Anthony’s eyes widen, “Roekaar?”

“You have had dealings with them, I assume?” Reaching out, Reyes takes the tablet from Anthony’s hands, flipping to another document. “It is the only connection between the victims I could discern. But, here is where you come in.”

Anthony stares back at him, unresponsive.

“I have no proof of Roekaar involvement. And the Resistance has no desire to engage. But I have heard what your AI is capable of.”

“SAM?” Anthony asks.

“Yes. If you scan one of the more recent murder sites, perhaps we will find something more substantial to work with. Something to implicate the Roekaar.”

Folding his hands in his lap, Anthony responds, “So you need me.”

“I need your AI,” Reyes doesn’t miss a beat.

“Right, of course.”

But Reyes also notices how Anthony flinches. “You are an added bonus.”

“Give me the navpoint.” Anthony still leans slightly backwards, trying to get away from Reyes. Perhaps he has been too forward, too aggressive. And here, Reyes thought, Anthony liked the teasing attention.

\--

While he waits for Anthony to radio back from the murder scene, Reyes receives mail from Keema. She's hosting a party, and by party, she means three of her closest friends and a bottle of liquor. And by that, she certainly means something deliciously nefarious. She’s enough sometimes to make Reyes blush, almost.

He mails her back, saying he wouldn't miss it for the world, but the Pathfinder is worth several worlds. Within seconds, she's messaged back.

\-->I've heard he's tall, dark, and handsome.

<\--I've heard you should mind your own business.

\-->He is!!! Isn't he!

<\--Perhaps, if you've only seen him from a distance.

\-->Just turn him around, if the face is the sticking point.

<\--KEEMA

<\--It's not that. He is tall, and dark, and handsome. But young, and shy.

\-->How young?

<\--22

\-->Is six years a lot for humans?

<\--It can be.

<\--He's a good person.

\-->And you're the worst.

<\--Yeah, just look at the company I keep.

Reyes hears his comm beep. Anthony has made it to the murder scene.


	6. On Second Thought Maybe it will Take a Third

Reyes reaches the navpoint. Anthony’s ATV is nowhere to be seen.

Approaching the prefab on foot, Reyes tries not to draw too much attention to himself. From the maps of Kadara he's consulted, behind the prefab should be the entrance to a cave system. The Roekaar are likely using the site as a base of operations. They know the terrain of Kadara better than the Milky Way species possibility could. And they’ll use that knowledge to their advantage.

Reyes’ advantage is that he knows his limitations. He’s not too proud to admit when he needs help.

Right now, that help is twofold. The first is the Pathfinder, hopefully en route. The second is in his backpack.

Going through the front door is suicide. Reyes needs to work out a better solution.

There has to be a joint where the prefab connects back into the cave system, a seam that can be exploited.

Carefully, he grabs onto the side of the prefab, hoisting himself up until his feet can find purchase on another ledge. He works his way up the side of the structure until he’s on top. Stepping lightly, he heads back towards where the prefab buttresses up against the cliff.

He finds what he’s looking for. Because the prefab doesn’t fit exactly against the uneven rock, the Roekaar, or whoever put down the prefab in the first place, has sealed the gap with expanding foam.

From his pack, Reyes pulls out a bottle of solvent and a paintbrush. He wets the brush, wiping the solvent in thick strokes along the edge of the foam to dissolve the points where it connects to both the prefab and the cliff. As the solvent works, he tries to shift the foam from side to side. The last thing he needs is for the chunk to fall through and onto the floor.

Once he pulls the foam, Reyes can slip through the hole and into the juncture of prefab and cave. The gap is just wide enough he can fit. There’s still the hole above his head, so he has to work fast. And hope the Roekaar don't notice the draft.

Reyes hugs the wall, using crates and natural outcroppings of rock for cover. The Roekaar don’t suspect a thing.

He didn’t have a detailed map of inside the cave, so now he’s more or less acting on instinct. Anticipating where to place the explosives is less a precise science than he would like. The one requirement is that they must remain out of sight until the critical moment.

Up ahead, deeper in the cave, he can hear the Roekaar talking. A woman, who sounds like this unit’s leader, and three men. Behind him, in the prefab, he hears an indistinct argument. But one of the voices is distinctly Anthony with his “everywhere and nowhere” accent.

Reyes has to move quickly.

He plants the explosives and primes the detonators. But this will be less of a surprise if he can’t get in behind Anthony. So he sets the traps and backtracks, hiding in the corner between a crate and the stone wall, just up the stairs that leads down into the cave interior. He watches as Anthony, an Angara man, an Asari, and another human man pass him by. They’re followed by four Roekaar, who keep rifles at their backs.

Everyone involved is too distracted to notice Reyes slip away. He has to wait for the right moment to make his entrance.

If anything, the presence of an Angara with the Pathfinder makes the Roekaar more irate. How could he betray his home, his people? Jaal is a cancer upon their civilization, and it is the task of the Roekaar to excise him from the body.

Anthony’s response is heartfelt and sincere. His voice doesn’t waver, telling the Roekaar they are wrong. They will be stronger together against the Kett. And once the Kett are defeated, their cultures will grow and bloom. For the Milky Way species to succeed, doesn’t mean that the Angara fail.

Reyes and Anthony both are children of a particular cosmic age. One where species, despite their differences, have learned to rely upon each other. They’ve never known Earth in isolation from the rest of space. They’ve grown up knowing Turians, Asari, Salarians, Krogan, Hanar, Volus, hell, even Vorcha and Batarians...They’ve made friends and lovers and confidants among the people who have crossed into and out of their lives.

The Angara have no such history.

They know themselves. And they know the Kett. They know war. Reyes wishes it were some other way. But it’s not. And Anthony’s words, for all their reserved eloquence, won’t sway the Roekaar.

It’s a miracle that any of the Angara choose to stand beside those from the Milky Way. If anything, it reaffirms Reyes’ belief in the beauty of sentient life. Because while he does not consider himself a good man, he sees goodness all around him. Everyday.

The Roekaar leader draws her knife, ready to slit Anthony open. Reyes remembers the Krogan victim, his front plate torn off while he was still alive. He must act now. She won't hesitate.

Reyes is half-decent with a gun. Taking aim, he shoots at the Roekaar’s hand, knocking the knife loose. She screams in agony and frustration, gripping her injured fist to her chest. Blood seeps from under her thick fingers. But she’s a warrior. This won’t deter her.

Reyes darts back down the stairs, his assault rifle drawn to make his intentions clear. He steps in next to Anthony, who huffs, “You’re late,” with a mixture of annoyance and relief.

Reyes can’t help but smile, knowing they now have the upper hand. “I’ve got a good reason,” he smirks, “And you’ll see in three...two…”

The Roekaar leader sneers, taking two steps back. With her dominant hand injured, she won’t be able to wield a knife or gun with any precision. “Kill them,” she commands, still clutching her hand to her chest.

“One,” Reyes pushes the detonator, curled tightly inside his fist.

The explosion goes off. Two of the Roekaar are so deep inside the blast zone they’re almost surely dead. Their leader is just far enough away that while the shrapnel catches her across her chest and face, she’s alive. Dominant hand or not, she grapples for one of the assault rifles knocked loose from her downed compatriot.

Anthony rushes forward as well, his hand extended. He sends out two quick blasts in short succession. The first is an Overload, taking down the Roekaar’s shield. The second is Incinerate, fire crashing into her chest hard enough to knock her backwards to the floor.

Anthony’s companions scramble for their weapons. For the moment, the Asari and human draw their Omni-blades to turn on the Roekaar at their backs. Slashing fiercely, they take their captors out before their shields can fall.

The Angara, Jaal, slides in towards the assault rifle one of the Roekaar dropped when he died. Grabbing it up, he aims at the snipers deeper in the cave, trying to suppress their shots. Realizing that Anthony is still unarmed, Reyes empties his clip into the Roekaar leader before she can find her feet.

Reyes shoves at Anthony, trying to force him down and into cover while his powers are recharging. There are still Roekaar firing on them. Anthony doesn’t have a gun.

“Has anyone told you you’re a madman?” Reyes asks, reloading the rifle in his hands.

Anthony taps at his Omni-tool summoning a combat drone that will give away their position in cover. Reyes supposes that there’s no use hiding anyway.

“I’m trying my best,” Anthony responds, shifting his weight and getting ready to blast at another target.

\--

With the Roekaar dealt with, Reyes wants to gather up what evidence they need to connect the group back to the murders at the Port. He walks by Anthony’s side as he scans potential evidence with his AI.

The others, Anthony’s squadmates, watch them in silence as they traverse the caves. Though they keep their distance, Reyes is under no delusion regarding what they think of him. No doubt, with the days they’ve spent on the planet, they’ve had time to hear rumors.

“Your friends don’t like me,” Reyes jokes. “Here,” he points to a spot of earth where footprints are particularly clear, “Maybe they match the ones at the murder site.” Though the Roekaar admitted to their crimes before they died, Reyes doesn’t want doubt left in anyone’s minds regarding the murders. He also wants everyone to know who was responsible for bringing them to justice. That it was the Pathfinder.

Anthony scans the footprints, “They don’t match. Let’s try another set.” He keeps his eyes on the ground. Most of the tracks are indistinct, trampled over multiple times during the firefight. “They don’t know you.”

“You don’t know me either,” Reyes points out.

Anthony scans another set of footprints. SAM alerts them that this matches one set from the Krogan murder scene.

“Evfra trusts you. And you wanted to find those responsible for the murders here.”

Evfra doesn’t strictly trust him. Reyes is merely a calculated risk that the Resistance leader has been forced to take. “Let’s try the terminal. Your SAM can hack through any security measures, yes? If not, I may be able.”

“SAM can do it,” Anthony says. “My squadmates….they just,” he shakes his head. They both wait for SAM to finish up. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You have access, Pathfinder.”

They’re both quiet as they comb the Roekaar records.

\--

The Tempest departs. Presumably with Anthony aboard. Reyes does not see him again before he leaves.

Keema invites him to come around her Port apartment again. No party today, but there is plenty of Milky Way wine left over. She thinks it's so terribly generous of them to have brought so much liquor with them from across the expanse of dead space.

→ We have our priorities in order.

← So you’ll come, then?

→ You never come to mine anymore.

← Reyes, you sleep in the back room of a slum bar. Forgive me for refusing your hospitality.

Reyes stares up at the ceiling. He likes his slum-bar room. It affords him just the right amount of visibility. A man of influence, but not too much. Keeps Sloane watching him, but he's not yet enough of a threat for her to interfere.

Going back to his comm, there's already another message from Keema.

← Stop plotting. And sulking. Get up here.

Reyes laughs, not bothering to respond. It won't take him more than fifteen minutes to reach Keema’s apartment.

\--

Keema lived on Kadara long before Sloane and the exiles arrived. She wasn't born here, but the planet is as much her home as anywhere else in Angara space.

Her apartment is undoubtedly one of the nicest in the port. If Sloane ever bothered to see it, she'd probably be horrifically jealous. Or maybe not. Reyes knows Sloane by her actions, not her tastes.

But Keema’s tastes he knows well. Their affinity for each other was almost instant, despite what Keema may say about him behind his back.

Dressed casually, in slacks and a button down, Reyes at least took the time to fix his hair before he came, styling it into place. He knocks sharply at Keema’s door, waiting for her answer.

“Come in, its unlocked,” she calls from the other side.

Reyes rolls his eyes. Only Keema is bold enough to leave her door unlocked in a city populated almost exclusively by thieves and misfits. But this is her home, and she won't be broken of her habits by new interlopers.

She's busy in the kitchen, stirring something boiling over the stove. For all her grand pretensions, there are some ways in which she's beautifully modest. Cooking for herself is one of those.

“Did you bring me a present?” she asks, leaning over so she can meet Reyes’ eyes as he comes inside.

Shucking off his jacket, he drapes it over the couch. He rolls up his sleeves. “My company not enough?”

“Hmm, you never learn.”

“What are we eating?”

“This is not for you,” she warns, covering the pot. “Hours yet until it's done. And you can't eat it warm. Besides, it's just nutrient paste. It wouldn't suit your palate.”

Reyes shrugs, taking a high stool at Keema’s bar. She already has a bottle of wine open. It's mid-range, nothing particularly fancy. By it will do. There's an empty glass sitting out for him, along with the half-full one Keema keeps next to the stove.

“How did your party go?”

“Grand. I had fun,” she says.

“What's her name then?” Reyes asks, taking a sip of the wine.

“What makes you think?” Keema smiles.

During one of their conversations, Keema admitted one of her favorite imports from the Milky Way, next to alcohol, happened to be Asari.

“I didn't, but now I do.”

She laughs, “Brenna I think? Doesn't matter. I don't think being an exile suited her. The Initiative is taking her back. Reassigned to Havarl. She's a scientist of some sort. Valuable enough that the Nexus is ready to forgive.”

“You could have gone with her?” Reyes never knows how serious or not Keema is about her conquests.

“And leave you all by your lonesome? Never,” reaching across the bar, she pats Reyes on his cheek. She turns back to the stove to uncover the pot and stir the contents once again.

“Reminds me,” Reyes looks around the apartment, “bugged?”

“At least two. The Collective is very interested in me, as of late,” she turns to face Reyes, holding three fingers close against her chest. There's one bug she's left active.

“You'd think the Outcasts would be interested in you as well. Given how popular you are.”

“Not Sloane’s style. She'd send someone in person. Still, I like to see the Collective spin their wheels.”

Reyes smiles into his glass. He and Keema think themselves so clever. Maybe they are, but maybe they're only amusing themselves.

“Sounds like the Charlatan has a crush,” he comments.

He never orders his operatives to spy on Keema. But he finds their enthusiasm to impress their faceless leader rather endearing. As long as Keema doesn't mind. If anything, letting lower ranked members hear the two of them joke about the surveillance only serves their ends. Leads to more false information in the ever moving stream of noise.

“They wouldn't be able to handle me.” She lowers the heat on the stove, taking her wine glass in hand. “But, tell me about the Pathfinder, and how well you handled him.” She leans back against the counter top, cradling her wine close to her chest.

Reyes groans, “He's...attractive. In his own way.”

“Power is attractive.”

Reyes bristles. That's not it. “Do you really think I'm that awful?” he asks. Keema potentially knows him better than anyone in the cluster. And that includes every soul who came from the Milky Way.

Her eyes soften, just a touch, her narrow pupils widening. “Oh Reyes. I have to admit, I never thought I'd see the day.”

“What?”

“You like him,” she says with firm finality. “Did you tell him?”

Reyes drums his fingers against the bar, “There's nothing to tell.”

“Does he know?” she asks.

“Of course he doesn't,” Reyes clips. “He thinks I'm a better man than I really am.”

“You should tell him,” as if it were that simple.

Reyes shakes his head and laughs, “What are you feeding me.” Refilling his glass, Reyes jokes, “The wine is going to my head.”

“Tell him,” Keema insists.

For all her sharpness and curiosity, Keema still doesn't quite understand humans. She can lie and cheat with the worst of them, but when it comes to affection, she's still sweetly open.

“I can't, Keema.” He runs his finger around the rim of his glass, “if you could...see how he looks at me. I don't want that to change. I don't want him to know.”

She tilts her head to one side, “You can't build love on lies.”

Reyes laughs, “Who said anything about love?”

“You did, friend. Your refusal to speak says volumes.”

Maybe Keema doesn't understand humans quite yet, but she sure as hell has Reyes figured out.


	7. One, two, fifteen, twenty-six

Peebee beams up at him, “I’m calling them Poc. You know,” she claps her hands together. “Proof of concept. Anyway, I’m working with Gil to try and build you a combat model. Something field-ready. Little bit more robust than your drone.”

Ryder crosses his arms over his chest. Really though, he’s excited at the prospect of having their very own Observer. If it works like Peebee seems to think it will, the little guy could be a real asset, drawing fire away from them and giving him more openings in the field. “Thanks,” he offers, uncrossing his arms and rubbing one hand down the length of his sleeve, from just above his elbow down to his wrist.

“Come on,” Peebee punches him in the other arm, “want to go see? Want to go help?” She practically bouncing.

“Yeah,” Ryder doesn't pull his hand away when Peebee grabs at it, dragging him out of the escape pod and down the hall, heading towards engineering.

As much as she says she's always with one foot out the door, she's beautifully natural walking the corridors of the Tempest, waving excitedly at Drack and Nyx. They're perched over the laptop they’ve got set up for APEX assignments. If they find something worth intervention, they’ll let Ryder know.

“GIL!” Peebee shouts, once they're through the engineering doors. Letting go of Ryder’s hand, she waves her arms wide and high, trying to get Brodie’s attention at the other end of the walkway. “Let’s bust out Zap!”

Brodie looks up from the console, stroking one hand along his beard. “I suppose I have time,” he calls back. “Meet me downstairs.” He heads towards the lift.

Peebee is already darting towards the ladder.

By the time they make it downstairs, Brodie has already pulled off the drop cloth, revealing “Zap.” The Observer is currently still in pieces, spread out across the workbench.

“Still a long way off, then?” Ryder asks, picking up what looks like an armored outer segment. It's solid, but lighter than he expects. For all the damn Observers they've shot down, he hasn’t really had the time to examine them in detail.

And that's weird. Weird. Because the Remnant constructs are exactly the kind of thing he would have loved to take apart, put back together, when he was in the Milky Way. Something he could try and understand, inside and out, made from manufactured pieces.

But there just hasn't been the time. There hasn't been the space to be himself.

Maybe that's a good thing.

Brodie and Peebee go straight to work, their fingers flying over the splayed components, picking at pieces seemingly at random. They speak to each other in clipped, familiar sentences.

Ryder wonders just how much he's missed.

Not when it comes to Zap, but also when it comes to Zap. Because despite the construct being reduced to dozens of individual components, once Brodie and Peebee go to work, the Observer gets reassembled at an alarming rate. But he also doesn't understand what actually has happened over the last several weeks. How they've gone from strangers to teammates. To friends. How Brodie and Peebee talk to him like he's included in their circle, when he’s fairly certain he’s not.

Ryder doesn't do a whole lot of helping, until Peebee asks him to pass over an “Observer slice.” The plates aren't actually jointed anywhere, but they click into place as Peebee works.

“Like nothing I've seen before,” Peebee shakes her head. “We only took it apart to try and reinforce some of the failure points. You know, lightweight armor mods, protecting vulnerable joints. We’ve broken enough of these apart that we knew how to put them together better than before. But that doesn't mean we really understand, you know?”

“Yeah,” Ryder says. But he doesn't really know.

\--

“This is Captain Hayjer of Ark Paarchero. If you are receiving this message, hostile aliens have captured our ship. Please look for our Pathfinder, Zevin Reaka. Situation urgent.”

“Fuck me,” Ryder taps his closed fist against the console.

It's not like he should have expected any different. The Kett ship and the Ark are tethered together, after all. It's not like in his wildest dreams he would have thought that this is a good thing. Like somehow the Salarians had managed to come across, he doesn't know, the one friendly group of Kett in the entire fucking cluster or anything. It's not like the complex encryption SAM had to work through was a big neon sign signaling “everything is great!”

Everything is awful. Again.

SAM tells him that Harper is rubbing his back. Ryder can't feel it through his armor. He's not sure he would feel it anyway.

“Give the kid some space,” Drack says, huffing somewhere behind Ryder.

Standing up straight, Ryder shucks off Harper’s comfort. She thinks he's too weak for this. There's no question.

And maybe he is. But there's nothing either one of them can do about that right now.

“Let’s find this Pathfinder,” Ryder draws his pistol, double checking the clip.

“You want me to take point?” Nyx asks, rocking her assault rifle in her hands. Her armor makes her the obvious choice.

_**SAM?** _

_Any of your current squad would be acceptable. Excluding yourself._

“Harper goes first. We’re in close quarters here. We need to take down or scatter as quickly as possible. And we’re going to have to set pace by her biotics.”

“Alright,” Nyx is never one to give him a hard time, even when their opinions differ.

Harper won't object either. She pulls her shotgun off her back, heading for the first maglocked door. Standing against the frame, she waits for Nyx, Drack, and Ryder to take up position before slamming her Omni against the lock.

\--

Reaka is a brilliant mind. Calm, calculating, but with a subtle empathy that Ryder finds surprising. She smiles when she says they're going to save her people. As many of them as possible.

“We use the tether,” Ryder repeats what SAM has told him, “to get onto the Kett ship.”

“Yes, that should work,” she types away at the console. “I'll wake up my team. Find a way to get us loose from that ship. When the time comes.”

“Yeah,” Ryder holds his hand flat over his Omni-tool. “I'll…”

_We can maintain a private channel, while still allowing Pathfinder Raeka access to my capabilities._

_You will still take priority._

_Always._

“Key you into our comms,” Ryder finishes, adding permissions to SAM for Raeka.

“Hello, Pathfinder,” SAM says over Raeka’s comm.

“Ah,” there's that smile again, “A SAM in my head. Good to be back in the game.”

\--

They have the element of surprise, but not for long. The Kett find them, open fire, and sound the alarms. Raeka shows up with her flight crew, definitely not on the Salarian Ark, where Ryder left them to wait for his signal.

“As many as possible,” Raeka stresses.

The “flight crew” she’s woken up look scared shitless. One of them mumbles about having never held a gun before. Ryder wonders if that's what he looks like all the time. Fuck, he hopes not.

Because Raeka is a model of calm professionalism. She puts her squad at ease with words that would honestly be considered a little dispassionate to human ears. But for the Salarians, it works.

Ryder and his team have their own objective here. They can't support Raeka.

“I know, Pathfinder Ryder. We’ll stay in contact over comms.”

There's no talking her out of it.

\--

“Caution,” SAM warns them too late.

The field grips Ryder, pinning him into place. A static that rolls through him, across him, feeling like he's numb all over, but electric at the same time. He tries to move his arm. He tells his brain to move his arm. He tells SAM to move his arm. But nothing happens. He tries his toes next. Nothing.

He tries to open his mouth. Or his mouth might already be open. No sound comes out. The vibrations are stuck somewhere behind his tongue. Ryder can feel himself breathing. So his heart and lungs still work. But otherwise, they're immobilized.

They wait in silence for the Archon to appear.

The Archon is somewhat less than Ryder expects. Short, broad, with small, wide set eyes and lips so thin they disappear into the hard, leathery wrinkles of his skin. Sure, they've seen a lot of Kett up close. And Ryder saw the Archon himself, however briefly, when they were cornered on the way to Aya. But somehow Ryder still expected….more.

Even immobilized, his limbs and tongue at the Archon’s mercy, Ryder suddenly thinks this war is winnable. Because the Archon is, fundamentally, a small man. A bully and a cheat. And small men have been defeated before.

It's all so clear now.

“Such an unlikely rival,” the Archon taps at Ryder’s cheek. “I almost thought you crossed dark space, just to arrive as competition worthy of my skill, my potential. It was invigorating,” he drags two fingers across Ryder’s skin, from his temple down to his lips. “And this will be your fitting end.” He draws his hand back. “Humans. How fascinating.”

Ryder tries to speak, to shout. But he can barely grimace in response. He tries in vain to thrash his arms and legs. To somehow break free of the invisible bindings holding him in place.

The Archon lifts his hand again, this time bringing it to Ryder’s throat. His skin is dry, brittle against Ryder’s softer neck. Squeezing down, the Archon steals his air. But only for a moment before his grip loosens. Ryder feels dizzy from the lack of oxygen.

“Fragile,” the Archon murmurs, as if in awe. Without preamble, he stabs the back of Ryder’s neck with what feels like a syringe. The pain is sharp but brief. “You are only my first sample, Ryder,” he says, hitting the second syllable too hard. “Your testing begins now. I will learn your secrets.” His breath is hot along Ryder’s face. He presses two fingers deep against Ryder’s neck before pulling away.

The Archon leaves them frozen. Ryder tries to scream again. His chest grows tight, but there’s still no sound.

_Pathfinder, I may have a solution._

_**SAM?** _

_There is a biological transmitter in your bloodstream. I am attempting to neutralize it now._

_**Okay.** _

_Furthermore, the containment field only interacts with living matter. If you expire, the field around you will extinguish until manually reset._

_As you know, my access to your physiology allows me to enhance your vital signals when required._

_I can also do the opposite._

_**You can kill me.** _

_Yes._

_**And the field will disappear.** _

_Yes, Pathfinder. Then I would attempt to resuscitate._

_**Okay.** _

_You are afraid._

_**Yeah, I am.** _

At the very least, Ryder can still squeeze his eyes shut.

**_I’m afraid._ **

_I’ll bring you back._

_Anthony._

_I promise._

_**Okay, let’s do this.** _

The others won’t know what’s happening. But Ryder can explain, when they’re free. When they win.

_Stopping your heart...now._

_Anthony._

It’s quiet, the second time Ryder dies in as many months. He’s there. And then, he’s not.

And then he’s there again, but in a mess of narrative strings and half-formed thoughts. He sees many visions in the spaces between. The pinprick holes in the mesh between life and death.

He sees his mother dancing, Aurelia shouting at him. They’re small. Small enough that they’re still the same size. By the time they turned thirteen, they were both taller than their mother.

Mom dances. Their father isn’t there.

And then he’s older, Aurelia dragging him to the bar district on the Citadel. They’re eighteen with the IDs to prove it. She orders something sweet. Another man orders their second round. Aurelia fluffs up her hair with one hand, teasing that she doesn’t like men. Doesn’t matter, her brother is pretty too. He likes men a lot.

Mom is going to die. Father is around more. But he still looks right through them. His eyes are lighter than theirs. Mom says they shouldn’t argue. She’s so happy they’re all together, at least this one last time. So proud. Her babies.

Ryder gasps, his eyes flying open. Clutching one hand to his chest, it’s useless, he can’t actually feel his heart through his armor. But he’s alive. He’s back.

Pushing himself to his feet, Ryder looks behind him. Nyx, Drack, and Harper are still trapped in the immobilization field. Raeka and her crew need their help. He has to find his bearings. They have to get moving.

“I’ll explain on the way,” he mumbles, looking for a console so he can free the others.

\--

Ryder feels...off. Which is to be expected. He died on that ship. But it was worth it, he figures. Because now they have a map to Meridian.

He sits down in front of his terminal in the Pathfinder’s quarters, stretching his arms over his head. He's supposed to be checking his mail, but he knows it will be filled with obligations that are not Meridian.

There are messages from Eos, Aya, Kadara, the Nexus. Hell, there are emails from his own crew on the Tempest. Ryder doesn't respond to any of them.

“Pathfinder, our course,” SAM requests.

“Um, the Nexus, to start,” he should report to the leadership. They should restock, upgrade their weapons, pick up the packages they've already ordered. Stuff like that is good for morale.

Jath chirps over the comms that they're en route for the Nexus. He thanks Ryder for saving his people.

Slouching in his desk chair, Ryder can only really think about those Krogans in the tanks. The one they've already had to fight. And he wonders, yet again, if he's made the right decision.

\--

They're scheduled on the Nexus for the next thirty-six hours. Eight of those Ryder spends in the Hyperion medbay, both Lexi and Carlyle prodding and poking him. They discuss what SAM did, possible long-term effects, short-term reactions. They talk about him like he's not even there. Run tests that SAM could manage without their intervention.

_They will find small a small amount of tearing in your heart. If they look close enough._

_**Should I be worried?** _

_I'm compensating._

Once he's released, Ryder gets a message from Brodie, asking to meet him in the Vortex. Ryder doesn't have anywhere else to be. This trip is more to give his crew some time to unwind, than anything else.

“Ryder!” Brodie calls, waving him over, “on second thought,” he gestures towards the bar, “Grab your drink, first.”

Ryder does as he's told, ordering, “Anything sweet,” and waiting for what the bartender offers. He waves his Omni over the till, paying upfront for his drink.

He takes a seat across from his engineer, watching as Brodie shuffles cards, “You ever play before?” he asks.

“Play?”

“Poker?” Brodie keeps fiddling with the cards in one hand as he uses the other to take a sip of his beer. “I can teach you.”

“Um,” Ryder sticks his hands back under the table, folding them into his hoodie pocket to keep them out of sight, “Why?”

Brodie groans, “Are you always like this?”

“Pretty much,” Ryder admits.

“You know,” Brodie sits back in his chair, slouching with his back against the rest and his beer between both hands. The cards are forgotten. “It wouldn't kill you to open up a little. Hell, everything else is already trying to kill you.”

“I know,” Ryder sneaks his hand out of his hoodie just long enough to take a drink. The ice in his glass is starting to melt.

_He is not sexually interested in you._

“I know.” Ryder tries again, “It's...a lot. It's not what I expected. I'm not...like the rest of you. I didn't prepare for this. I just wanted...out.”

Brodie laughs, “A lot of us wanted ‘out’ of the Milky Way. Hell, some of us just wanted a change of scenery outside our windows. I get it, I do. You're not cut out for leadership. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes just...Ryder. You're not half-bad as a symbol. You know?”

“I mean…”

“Listen,” Brodie wrings the neck of his beer bottle. “You've got the right intentions. And you don't look terrible in your armor. We want to help you, Ryder. But you have got to let us in.”

“I'm...trying.”

“Ryder, you died on that ship.”

Ryder winces in the dim light of the bar, “I know.”

“Sure, I tried,” Brodie reaches back onto the table for the cards. “Come on, I heard you're a quick learner.”


	8. The Wishing Well Rejects Careless Offerings

“SAM?”

“Yes, Pathfinder?”

_**I need you.** _

_Anthony._

Ryder’s jaw clamps down hard, teeth grinding together. The Tempest is heading back to Kadara. Nyx has been getting unofficial reports through a bunch of different channels. Ryder doesn’t know how long it will take them to handle Meridian. And Nyx’s sources tell her there’s problems with the exiles that can’t wait.

Or, that the Pathfinder can use to his advantage.

“Lock the door,” Ryder instructs SAM, heading over towards his closet. He strips out of his hoodie and the shirt underneath with one pull, tossing them into a messy pile on the floor.

Ryder hasn’t brought a lot from the Milky Way. That’s intentional. Kinda. He didn’t really own a lot back home either. But there are a few things he’s brought: a small amount of clothing, data tablets with projects he was working on, three pairs of the same sneakers in different colors, and this box. It’s nondescript, lightweight aluminum with a latch in front. When he still lived at home, with his mom and sister, he thought putting a lock on it would just make it more suspicious.

Crouching, with the box perched on his knees, Ryder opens the latch, making sure what he needs is still inside. It’s not as if someone would have gone through his things while he was in cryo. But he feels better double checking first.

The things he’s brought aren’t like, weird or anything. At least he doesn’t think so. Sometimes his hands are enough. And sometimes they’re not. And the last thing he wanted to try and figure out when arriving in Heleus was where to buy sex toys. Fucking hell.

He tosses the closed box onto the bed before stripping out of his jeans and socks. Hesitating, he pulls off his boxers too, adding them to the pile in the corner of the room.

The air in the Pathfinder’s quarters is slightly cool and utterly still. He wiggles his bare toes against the floor.

Starting at his throat, Ryder takes his right hand and drags it from just underneath his chin, down the center of his chest. He stops just above his navel, before his fingers travel back up, changing course this time to circle around one dark nipple, then squeeze.

He closes his eyes, dropping his head to one side. Standing here, facing his bed but otherwise exposed, keeps the chill against his skin, making the places he touches feel otherwise burning hot.

 _ **SAM, talk to me,**_ he twists hard at his nipple, until his mouth falls open, _**please.**_

_Stop touching yourself. Lean over the bed._

Ryder obeys, though it’s an awkward position with his too-long legs sticking off the side of the bed, his torso against the sheets, and cock pinned painfully between his abdomen and the mattress. He spreads his legs, dipping his back just enough that his ass sticks out.

_**I’ll be good.** _

_You will be._

Squirming against the bed, Ryder tries to pull a little friction to ease the ache. SAM told him not to touch himself, so he keeps his hands still. But he doesn’t have the self-discipline to keep himself from humping against the edge of the bed, raising and lowering his hips as he grinds.

_**SAM, please, I want...do you know what I want?** _

_I believe so._

He wants to fuck himself open with the dildo in the box, slick and wet with lube. He wants SAM to whisper in his mind that he’s okay. Nothing is wrong. They’re fine and they’re together. SAM isn’t going to leave. SAM doesn’t want to leave. Sam wants him. Someone wants him. He wants to come pitifully against the sheets, stuffed full and his body aching from exertion. Sweaty, messy. He wants to get off and he doesn’t want to be alone. There are a lot of things he wants. And he may only want them very briefly. But he wants them now.

Reaching out, he grabs the box with one hand, dragging it closer. He goes to get the dildo and bottle of lube when SAM stops him.

_Anthony, I have another option._

_**Anything you want.** _

_**Please, I just need...** _

_I believe I know._

Ryder nods, his forehead brushing against the bed, static sticking in his hair.

**_Tell me what to do. I’ll be good._ **

_You always are._

_We can do this in any position you find comfortable._

_**SAM…** _

_On your hands and knees._

Ryder complies, dragging himself up to get into position. He keeps his thighs parted, dropping his head between his shoulders, staring back at his heavy cock.

_I can do this for you._

Ryder groans when he first feels it, the licking of sensation between his legs, around the base of his cock at first, a tight grip that pulses in an even rhythm. It starts to bloom, reaching back towards his perineum. The muscles in his thighs tense, reacting unbidden to the slow, torturous swipe of SAM against his nerves.

_Let me do this for you._

Gasping, Ryder feels SAM push inside. He drops his face down to the mattress, sucking in air through his clenched teeth as SAM stretches him open. Narrow at first, like a single, long finger, circling around the sensitive skin of his hole before dipping inside. Then thicker, two fingers at once, and slick. The intrusion glides smoothly into his hole, opening him up on each measured stroke.

There’s still tension around his cock as well, a steady pressure that holds him tight. But for now, he’s focused on SAM fucking him open. It’s not quite enough yet, not the stretch and burn he wants. But SAM said he would take care of him. That he knows what Ryder wants.

Ryder feels suddenly empty, though still somewhat loose and wet. His legs are shaking. He keeps his eyes closed.

 _ **SAM, please. Oh fuck,**_ he spreads his knees farther apart, arching up his back again for SAM to take him. But SAM has no eyes other than his. He opens his eyes, looking back between his legs again. He can’t see where he’s lubricated and open, but he knows he must look a mess. He can feel the excess running from upturned ass, down the backs of his legs.

_I’m going to take care of you now,_

_Anthony._

SAM pushes in, hard and fast and all at once. The force of it knocks the wind out of Ryder’s lungs, his elbows buckling. He pushes himself back up into position, trying to hold his hips still. In a distant, murky sort of way, he knows how SAM is doing this.

SAM can kill him. SAM has killed him. SAM can control everything. SAM can control him.

Ryder’s cock leaks precum, messy at the tip. Cracking his eyes open, he sees the small dark, damp stain below him on the sheets.

_**SAM.** _

A wide, blunt pressure clamps around his hips, squeezing down against jutting bone, like hands holding him steady. Ryder rocks back as he feels SAM withdrawing, just before SAM slams back in, striking against his prostate. Incredibly precise.

His tear ducts feel wet. But nothing happens. SAM repeats the sensation, fucking into him again, stretching him wide. Vulnerable, with nowhere to go. Because SAM can be everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Panting hard, Ryder cants backwards again, as if there were a partner behind him, not just inside. Curiosity gets the best of him, because it feels so real. SAM with hands over his skin and around his cock and being filled.

_**SAM, SAM.** _

_I like you, like this._

Ryder props himself up on one elbow so he can free his other hand. Reaching behind himself, he brushes his fingers against his hole, wanting to feel where SAM has opened him. But he’s dry, and closed.

It’s only in his head. A manipulation of his nerves. SAM can make him feel anything SAM wants. Simulacrum. An imitation as good as real. Oh, fuck. Ryder contracts around nothing, shivering at the realization.

Already, Ryder feels stuffed full and sore. Aching as he’s pulled apart. Burying his face against his arm, he screams and SAM stimulates his prostate again, a wide, blunt pressure inside of him. His fingers still at his hole, he pushes one dry digit inside, trying to feel what happens alongside SAM’s stimulation. He doesn’t know, can’t know, if the ache of it is real, or if SAM just knows that he wants more.

He wants to be devastated by this. He wants to come apart. Forget, forget, forget.

_Come for me._

A sudden, harsh pressure hits against his jaw, forcing his mouth open and cutting off his air. It only takes a fraction of a second, an impact and constraint, and Ryder comes in violent bursts. Then it’s gone.

Ryder gulps down air, but it’s going to take him a minute to recover. Nothing feels like it works right, even blinking. His own cum sticks to his stomach, where he’s plopped flat against the bed. He buries his face, blocking out the light.

_**SAM?** _

_Anthony._

_**Thank you.** _

_Your heart rate is slowing. And your blood pressure is returning to normal levels._

Ryder laughs out loud, “You’re such a romantic.” He rolls from his stomach onto his back. Keeping his knees splayed, he reaches between his legs again. There’s no soreness now, like there would be if he actually got fucked as hard as that felt. The thought makes him shiver.

“I can replicate the after-effects as well. If you prefer.”

“No,” Ryder withdraws his hand, laying it flat across his abdomen instead. “I suppose this is...better. Makes it easier for me to, you know, fight. Without discomfort.”

“Yes. This was my assessment as well.”

_I can more realistically simulate the physical act. But this method leads to less soft-tissue trauma._

_**What about when you choked me?** _

SAM doesn’t respond.

“SAM?”

_I believe it to be an unnecessary risk._

_**SAM, you still did it, though.** _

_I have partial access to your memories. Enough to know that you would likely seek another partner, if I were unable to satisfy your needs in this manner._

_**You didn’t have a problem killing me.** _

_That was the only option to free you from the immobilization field. And I am able to serve your needs in this case as well. In a safer, more controlled fashion than an independent partner would. I do not “have a problem” with performing for you._

“One hour before arrival in Kadara Port,” SAM announces over the comm.

“I get it, I get it,” Ryder thinks he can make it to the shower now.

_\--_

Traces of the Charlatan are everywhere on Kadara. In too long glances from a curious Salarian; in hushed whispers between twin Asari; a human who might be just eighteen, who drops their data tablet conveniently at Ryder’s feet. The screen shatters into tiny, reflective particles, like snow across the hot pavement. She apologizes, bending down to gather up the shards with her bare hands. Ryder crouches next to her, sweeping up the fragments.

People talk, observe, report back to a nameless force, curling ever tighter around Kadara Port. If Sloane cared about Ryder, she would ask directly. Ryder finds this whole cloak and dagger business of the Charlatan exhausting.

Flipping through his Omni, he scans Nyx’s leads for a third time. There are a lot of them. He doesn't know where to start.

“Reyes Vidal may have more information,” SAM suggests.

Ryder bristles at the suggestion, “Okay, let’s go.”

He heads down to the slums. With his pistol holstered against his hip and his Omni, Ryder is fairly certain he’s prepared. Riding the elevator down, he flips through the list a fourth time, trying to figure out what he should ask Vidal about first.

He’s un-accosted as he makes his way to the bar. What’s the name?

_Tartaros._

Tataros. He uses the second floor entrance, trying to avoid as many of the patrons as possible. Last time, the balcony was empty.

But something’s happening today, because the upper floor is packed tight with bodies. People of all species crowd against the railings, drinks in hand and trying to shout over the music. The cages against the far wall are occupied by dancers. An Asari, a female Human, and a male Turian. Ryder looks away, trying to push his way to the back of the bar and Vidal’s “office.”

_Mr. Vidal is downstairs._

_“_ Well, shit,” Ryder curses. Someone bumps into him from behind. It’s a Salarian, his dark eyes going wide as he makes his excuses. Ryder smiles back at him out of politeness, “It’s fine.”

The Salarian slides his long-fingered hand down the side of Ryder’s arm, smiling back, “Haven’t seen you here before. Would have noticed, you’re very tall. For a human.” He blinks, “I like that.”

Ryder laughs, though he’s heard that one plenty of times before. Salarians are the only aliens who routinely make him feel short, or at least average. “I’m looking for Reyes Vidal?” he asks.

The Salarian frowns, narrowing his eyes, “Haven’t seen him. Could help you though. What do you need?”

_Pathfinder-_

_**I’m aware.** _

He doesn’t really have time for this right now. Politely excusing himself, Ryder slips away into the crowd, leaving the friendly Salarian behind. He pulls his hood up over his hair.

Even the stairs are packed with loiterers, having little other place to go. Ryder turns his body sideways to slip through to the first floor.

As expected, the main floor is as crowded as the balcony above. Vidal isn’t particularly tall, or distinctive, and the light is low. “Can you ping his comm?” Ryder asks SAM. If this goes on any longer, Ryder is just going to bail. He can already feel anxiety creeping in. Being sober around all these people is taxing. Even if none of them are really paying attention to him.

He waits a minute more, his hands stuffed in the front pocket of his hoodie. Looking around the club, he still doesn’t see Vidal. He doesn’t even know where to start. He should just go, sort out the requests on his own.

An arm wraps around his waist from behind, well-manicured hand coming to rest on his hip. Ryder turns into the contact, swinging around to meet Vidal face-to-face. Vidal smiles up at him, coming up on his toes to speak into Ryder’s ear over the roar of the bar, “We’ll go upstairs to talk?”

Ryder nods. Vidal steps away, taking lead back up the stairs. Ryder sticks close behind him, focusing on the task ahead instead of the shifting mass of bodies. It should be better in the back room.

Vidal keys them through the locked door, letting Ryder in first. Once the door shuts behind them, Ryder drops his hood, running his hand through the front of his hair, trying to discharge the static.

“If I had known you were coming, I would have made arrangements,” Vidal offers, putting his hand at the small of Ryder’s back and ushering him towards the bank of couches. “I’m having one of the barbacks deliver our drinks.” Vidal sits across the couch from Ryder, unlacing his boots and pulling his feet up onto the cushions. Ryder sits with his feet still on the floor.

“I didn’t...I don’t,” Ryder takes a breath and tries again. Though he can still feel the steady bass from the other room, the music is muffled here. And it’s just him and Vidal in the office. “I have a number of requests that came to me through Vetra Nyx. I was hoping someone more familiar with the situation here on Kadara could help me sort through them?”

There’s a buzz at the door. Vidal excuses himself, going to retrieve the drinks from the barback. He doesn’t let the person inside, taking the drinks from them and shooing them away. Ryder can’t even get a look at who it is.

Vidal hands him one glass, keeping the other for himself. He holds it out to clink against Ryder’s, “It’s too late already for you to leave the Port. We may as well enjoy ourselves, while we go over your intel?”

Ryder keeps a steady grip on his drink, “Yeah okay.” He sips. It’s vodka, mixed with something sweet he doesn’t recognize, maybe an Angaran beverage. It tastes nice. But he doesn’t bother asking what it is.

Vidal hands him a datapad, asking Ryder if he wants to transfer the information so that they can both look at the reports. Ryder taps his Omni against the transfer port, then hands the tablet back to Vidal.

They work their way through their drinks, exchanging comments about each prospect. Vidal seems to know them all. When he’s uncertain about a detail, he takes up another data tablet, looking up what information they need. “Information is what Evfra pays me for, after all,” he explains.

Once Ryder finishes his first drink, Vidal taps at his Omni, saying he’ll order another round. When he gets up to retrieve the drinks, Ryder toes off his sneakers. Folding his legs underneath him on the couch, Ryder reaches out for the second drink when Vidal returns. Vidal smiles brightly.

“I’m sorry if this is ruining your evening,” Ryder says. If Vidal was downstairs, he must have been with someone.

“Not at all. You are a very important man, Anthony. Besides, there is something I need your help with, as well.”

“Oh?” he tries not to let disappointment seep into his voice. There’s no point questioning Vidal’s intentions. He’s heard a bunch of rumors at Port.

Not one of the murky, unflattering conjectures change the fact Vidal is devastatingly handsome, in a way that reminds Ryder of old Earth-made movies.

When they first met at that other bar, SAM had let him know, _He is sexually interested in you_. Which was, honestly, intensely flattering. _You are also sexually interested in him._ As if Ryder had to be informed of his own desires.

If he were back home...well...but he’s not. He’s Pathfinder. And someone wanting to fuck him because he’s the human Pathfinder is sort of to be expected. Someone as interested in knowing the inner workings of Kadara Port, if not the whole cluster, being interested in fucking him is even more predictable.

But he can’t just act on his own desires here. As much as he’s ready to drop to his knees in front of the couch and ask Vidal if he minds terribly if Ryder sucks his cock, he can’t actually like, do that. Fuck. He bets Vidal’s hands would feel great pulling at his hair.

When he’s offered a third drink, Ryder refuses. He should get back to the Tempest.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Vidal asks.

“Yeah, I’ll bring a squad that compliments the two of us. A biotic for sure, and someone comfortable taking point position.”

“Sounds perfect,” Vidal smiles, “We’ll meet at Kralla’s Song. I need to speak to Umi before we leave the Port.”

“Sure, okay, that works for me,” Ryder works back on his sneakers without touching the laces.

“You’ll wear them out that way,” Vidal comments.

Ryder shrugs his shoulders, “I brought a bunch of pairs.” But Vidal is right. Once these are gone, they’re gone. It’s a sobering thought.

“Be careful,” Vidal walks him to the office door, “It’s dark out, and Kadara is a dangerous place.” He pulls his hand back, giving Ryder space. “Tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow,” Ryder repeats.


	9. Warm the Soil with Unmet Expectations

Reyes makes a thin cup of instant in his office before he leaves. Though the coffee is still too hot to drink, he gulps it down, leaving a layer at the bottom of the mug, a couple millimeters deep.

He doesn't let the barstaff clean when he's not around. So the coffee mug will sit there until he's back. He hesitates before leaving. He really should wash the mug. But there's no sugar or creamer to ferment. He took the coffee black. It should be fine.

He wears his armor out, expecting that he, and Anthony, and Anthony’s team, will leave the Port right after they talk to Umi.

In his pack, Reyes carries a datapad, two small explosives, a handful of small, high value items (circuits, rare metals, and the like), ammo, medigel, a fire kit, a pouch of other survival tools. Everything fits neatly in his bag. Everything he could need to stay out in the wilderness; Or jump the next transport off the planet; Or hijack his next transport off the planet.

He rides the elevator up to Port, heading straight towards Kralla’s Song.

Anthony is already there, seated at one of the larger booth tables, an Asari and an Angara man sitting across from him. Waving with his hand bunched in close to his chest, Anthony smiles softly. Reyes gestures for him to join him at the bar.

“I should introduce you to them,” Anthony says as way of greeting. "We didn't get the chance, the other day."

Reyes claps him on the shoulder, “After. Umi will just get busier the longer we wait.”

‘Okay,’ Anthony mouths, but no sound actually comes out.

It’s too early, and they have too much to do, so Reyes doesn’t order anything. He just smiles at Umi as she finishes wiping down the bar. A Salarian barback comes in from the kitchens, a tub full of glasses in his hands. He sets them down for Umi to sort, disappearing back behind the staff door without a word.

“How is my favorite bartender?” Reyes asks.

Umi scoffs, “What is it you want to know? And don’t lean on the bar. I just cleaned.”

Reyes asks after Zia. Has Umi has seen her around?

“You mean your ex?” Umi turns away to start sorting through the glassware.

A little knot forms between Anthony’s brows, his otherwise full lips drawing into a thin line. He looks at the floor. He doesn’t look back up. Reyes just asks Umi for what she knows, trying to keep the conversation going.

“She’s headed out for a meeting at Spirit's Ledge. She had a Salarian in tow,” Umi stacks the glasses into a pyramid behind the bar, working carefully to keep their balance. “That should be more than enough for you to work with, yeah?”

“Thank you Umi, as always.” He tips her, though he’s ordered nothing.

Reyes expects Anthony to say something. A question about Zia, perhaps. If they were close, how long since the breakup, if her cutting into his smuggling operations could be retribution for their personal affair. Anything. But Anthony asks nothing, only mumbling, “You should meet the others.”

Together, they head back to the table where Anthony left his squadmates. He slides into the booth seat against the wall. The Angara moves out of his chair to sit close at Anthony’s side instead. Reyes takes the chair across from Anthony, the Asari to his side.

“This is Jaal Ama Darav, um, actually you might know each other, from the Resistance?” Anthony says.

Reyes reaches his hand across the table to shake Jaal’s. While Jaal doesn’t refuse the offered hand, the handshake is brief and weak. “I’ve read about Shena. But we’ve never had a conversation."

“Evfra speaks very highly of you,” Reyes tries to ease the tension. He does not miss how Jaal’s arm goes to rest across the back of the booth seat. He doesn’t lay his arm across Anthony’s shoulders, leaving it perched just above. But the gesture is unmistakably protective.

“And I’m Peebee,” the Asari chirps. She turns her body so she can stick her feet on the rungs beneath Reyes’ chair. Tapping her boots against the metal bar she continues, “I’ll be your biotic for the evening, er, morning, however long it takes.” She shakes her head, running one hand along the side of her face, “Don’t expect great things. Well, we’re running kinda tech-heavy. But we’ll make it.”

“Tech-heavy works on Kadara. The strongest biotics on the planet mostly answer to Sloane. And I have no intent of stepping on her toes. Today or any day,” Reyes assures them. At least the part about ‘today’ is true.

“Well,” Peebee scrunches up her face, “I’m still an Asari, so I can get us through if we need you know, floaty-gravity stuff. I can still do it.”

“We should get going,” Anthony interjects. “Let’s head to the Nomad.”

As they get up to head for the slums, Jaal stays in step, just behind Anthony, preventing Reyes from getting close.

\--

In the Nomad, Reyes sits in back with Peebee, Jaal takes the passenger seat. As Anthony drives, Jaal leans slightly, keeping close to the Pathfinder. Peebee is the only one who speaks. Reyes doubts very much that she’s oblivious to the tension in the cab. More likely, she’s talking to try and break it up.

Reyes leans back against the seat, taking up conversation with Peebee. She asks him a wealth of frivolous questions about Kadara, before drilling deep about Remnant sites. He doesn’t mind sharing what he knows. It’s not much. His interests on the planet are elsewhere.

But the Pathfinder is the only one who can make use of Remnant technology. And if they can achieve here what reports confirm is happening on Eos, rapid terraforming, Reyes at least wants them to try.

“Ryder,” Peebee leans across the seats, trying to stick her head in between Jaal and Anthony, “We should totally hit up the Monoliths here ASAP. While we’re still waiting on that supply drop, yeah?”

“Uh, sure,” Anthony concedes. They pull up to the base of Spirit’s Ledge. “We’ll walk from here.”

They make the hike up the hill, finding the summit predictably empty. Zia is too clever to stay in one place for very long.

Anthony flicks on his Omni, presumably with SAM’s advanced capabilities enabled.

The things Reyes could do with access to that kind of processing power. He hasn’t actually seen SAM in action yet. But everyone who has done business with the Pathfinder knows. Everyone who has access to Initiative planning procedures knows too. Not that Reyes was intended to belong to that select group. Like everything else Reyes has accomplished, he’s clawed his way in.

Anthony keeps his eyes on the ground as he follows some invisible path. Wiring, maybe? Jaal stays at his back, his assault rifle primed and ready. The two of them disappear behind an outcropping of rock. Peebee and Reyes keep lookout.

“Vidal!” Anthony calls, “come look at this.”

Reyes walks over, leaving Peebee behind to cover their backs. Jaal steps aside, for once, to let Reyes get a look at the terminal that’s been nestled into the corner between two rocks.

“What do you think?” Anthony asks, crouched in front of the terminal.

“Unlocks a dead drop, most likely.”

“So we switch it?” Anthony asks, but his fingers are already moving, unlocking the box. Finding the drop is another matter entirely.

Reyes laughs. Why did Anthony even ask? “Now we find where that connects.”

Anthony’s face is a little softer now, less pinched. He smiles, pushing himself to his feet. “Easy, I can follow the wiring with my scanner.”

Reyes tries to look around Anthony’s shoulder at his Omni-tool, as he aims it towards the ground. But Reyes can’t see anything but the sharp neon-orange glow.

“Connects to my implant,” Anthony explains. “I can see things others can’t.”

“It’s amazing technology,” Jaal says, breaking his looming silence.

“You’re amazing,” Reyes slips in. He knows it will provoke Jaal. And he thinks it will embarrass Anthony. But the risk he takes is a calculated one.

Turning back to look at Jaal, Reyes is surprised to see his expression unchanged.

They both follow after Anthony, picking up Peebee on their way back towards the mountainside. There is debris everywhere, slowing them down as Anthony traces the line. With both Peebee and Jaal on alert, Reyes keeps his gun across his back. Besides, he’s more useful when he can make quick decisions, adapt to the current situation. A third gun does little good.

Anthony finds the unlocked crate. Inside is a data tablet with a navpoint. “Why?” he asks.

“To meet with the buyer. Comms can be hacked. Dead drops are safer for a large purchase like this.” Reyes scans the navpoint into his Omni as well.

Anthony frowns, putting the tablet back into the box and shutting the lid, “Should we lock it back?”

“It’s not a terrible idea.”

They retrace their steps, locking back up the crate by way of the terminal. By the time they’re done, it’s nearly noon. Peebee whines that she’s hungry. And if she’s expected to perform as a biotic, Ryder better feed her like one.

“I thought Asari…” Anthony tries to argue.

Peebee just opens her mouth and sticks her finger towards it, “Feed me.”

Anthony laughs. Reyes isn’t sure he’s ever seen him laugh before. Not like that.

There’s food in the Nomad, ration bars, water, simple things. Still Peebee seems content as she chews, leaning against the side of the ATV.

Jaal continues to watch Reyes with always-narrow eyes, but stays a good deal away, closer to Peebee now than Anthony. Reyes isn’t sure what he’s done or hasn’t done. Or what exactly the situation is here. He can try to find out more about Jaal later. But for now, he’s flying sort of blind.

Except there’s that one thing he’s found out about Anthony. A footnote of a footnote in his records. Otherwise undistinguished, in every way, there’s an offhand remark in an Alliance record, that ended up in his Initiative intake files. Transferred over so clumsily that Anthony’s name is missing. So is the name of the N7 involved.

It shouldn’t be there in the first place, a disciplinary hearing that went nowhere. If Anthony was cleared of wrongdoing, it should have been removed from his records.

Maybe it’s not even about Anthony. Maybe it’s someone else’s record that ended up attached incorrectly. Someone else with the birthdate March 4th, 2163. The other person, the N7, is listed as June 23rd, 2131. So, not Alec Ryder. Someone else.

Reyes won’t ask. Unless it somehow becomes important. It’s not important. He’s curious. But it’s not important.

Still...curious.

Anthony sits on the ground, his legs tucked up under his ass. In his armor, he looks less gangly, broader and more built than he actually is. Still, the awkward position of sitting on his legs is charming. Most soldiers wouldn’t think to sit like that. Anthony shoves half a ration bar in his mouth, chewing slowly while he stares into the distance.

Reyes sits down across from him, keeping his knees bent and feet flat on the surface of the planet. Inside the protective field around the Nomad, their environmental resistances are boosted enough that they don’t have to worry about contamination.

“Thank you,” Reyes offers, “for helping me with this.”

Anthony shrugs, “We’re helping each other, right? I mean,” he coughs into his hand to clear his throat. Then takes a sip from his water bottle before continuing, “that’s how things work. Ah, I provide something. And you provide something in return.”

“I suppose so,” Reyes isn’t really sure how to respond that. He has no delusions about the cool detachment of his own methods. But hearing them articulated in such a way, from someone as painfully earnest as Anthony, makes Reyes feel itchy-awful.

“We should get moving,” Anthony dusts the crumbs off his armor. Actually, he misses most of them.

“Hold on,” Reyes grabs Anthony by the hand once they’re both standing, trying to tug him around to the other side of the Nomad, so they’re out of line-of-sight for the others. He expects Jaal to stop them, but he doesn’t, letting them round the corner of the ATV. “You should ask me a question,” Reyes says, once they are obscured from view. He keeps his voice low.

“About what?” Anthony asks.

“Anything. Then I will ask you something in return.”

Anthony frowns, “I thought...you’d be more, private? Right? With the codename and all.”

“I told you, I don’t care for the codename bullshit,” he forces a smile, trying to get Anthony to relax. “I deal in information, yes. But we’re working together. We don’t have to be…” Reyes thinks about his words carefully, “Ask me something about myself. And I will answer honestly.” There’s only one question that could put them both in danger. Reyes doubts very much that Anthony will think to ask.

“Okay,” Anthony huffs, “Do you know you’re attracted to me?”

That’s not...a question Reyes was expecting. Maybe ‘are you attracted to me?’ would be reasonable. But Anthony’s question is another beast entirely. One that suggests he’s far more perceptive than he lets on. And Reyes wonders again if he’s being played by the subtle sweetness of Anthony’s demeanor.

“What makes you think that?”

“Answer my question first,” Anthony insists.

Reyes covers his forehead with his palm, keeping his hand arched over his eyes. “Yes, I’m aware,” Reyes admits. “Now my question,” he cuts Anthony off, before he can say something else to toss Reyes off-guard. “My turn.”

‘Okay,’ Anthony mouths.

Dropping his hand, Reyes asks, “When you were a child, who, what did you want to be?”

Anthony raises his eyebrows, visibly concerned by the question, “I don’t know. Vidal...I don’t know what or who I want to be now. Only...who I’m required to be.” He licks his tongue over his bottom lip, “That’s my honest answer.”

“Okay, alright,” Reyes shakes his head, laughing at how absurd this conversation is. “Can I ask one more thing?”

“Do I have to answer?”

“No, if you don’t want to.”

“Okay,” Anthony concedes, “then ask.”

“If you already knew I was attracted to you, why ask?”

Anthony doesn’t hesitate on the answer, “I’m not interested in being anyone’s ‘exception.’” He looks at the side of the Nomad instead of at Reyes, “We should head out.”

\--

The navpoint location is remote. The hours in the Nomad pass in relative silence. Peebee is the only one to initiate conversation, switching up between the three others until each conversation peters out. Reyes learns more about her than the others, though she always speaks in evasive turns of phrase. She must like the sound of her own voice. Reyes likes her.

Upon reaching the coordinates, they all pile out of the Nomad. Reyes stretches his arms over his head, trying to work away the stiffness. Peebee was smart to insist they eat before leaving. Otherwise, he would be ravenous.

“Jaal, take point,” Anthony instructs, pulling on his helmet. The others do the same, getting ready to storm the prefab. Using his Omni, Anthony hacks through the door. Stepping aside, he lets Jaal enter first, then Peebee, then Reyes. Anthony is the last to come in from behind.

The prefab appears to be deserted, but they’re not taking any risks. Anthony instructs Peebee to watch the door, and for Jaal to check upstairs, while Reyes searches the console for his cargo.

Anthony takes off his helmet.

Reyes heads straight to the inventory terminal. He has a pretty good idea what he’s looking for. The records are locked, but he can hack through without the AI. He hasn’t gotten this far without knowing how to do some things himself. Once he’s past the encryption, he starts looking for the cargo.

“It’s….empty...it’s not here,” Reyes shakes his head. Not only that, it never was here. There’s no cargo.

Redirecting his attention from the terminal to the crates, he prys the first one open. It’s empty. He already knows the others are empty too.

“It’s a set-up,” Anthony mumbles, “Would she set you up?”

“She….fuck,” it’s a set-up.

The doors slide open. Jaal and Peebee react quickly enough to duck behind two separate crates and stay hidden. Reyes and Anthony stand rooted in place in front of the empty shipping containers. Maybe there’s still a way out of this. Reyes takes off his helmet. They can talk.

“Bravo,” Zia walks through the open doors. She holds her helmet against her hip, smiling back at Reyes. “I knew you would figure it out eventually.”

She’s changed her hair, let it grow out longer, skimming against her chin.

“You never could resist a big payout.”

Next to Reyes, Anthony clutches his fists tight. There’s a crackle of electronics skimming over his body, sure as any drawn pistol, it’s a threat. Reyes reaches over, grabbing hold of Anthony’s wrist. A subtle, ‘no.’

“What can I say,” Reyes tries to keep her talking, “I’m a greedy man.”

“That’s why you don’t have any friends,” her lips stay curled upwards as she brushes her bangs away from her forehead. As long as her helmet is off, they’re in the clear. Zia is a careful woman. As careful as Reyes. She won’t take unnecessary chances. “You’re so selfish.”

Though, in this case, Reyes has not been careful enough.

“He’s a better man than you think,” Anthony speaks up, with surprising clarity.

“Oh, sweetie,” Zia laughs, but there’s no kindness in her eyes, “You have no idea how wrong you are. But you will.”

Reyes needs Anthony to calm down, he can practically feel the fire in Anthony’s hands, “Leave him out of this.”

Zia smirks, “You’ve gotten a lot of attention here on Kadara, love. But I think I’ve talked enough.” She takes her helmet from her hip, snapping it into place with the rest of her armor.

Reyes goes for his helmet first, his assault rifle second. That leaves Zia enough time to back out and find cover. Anthony reacts faster, not bothering to protect himself. Once Zia pulls her rifle, Anthony is already striking out with an Overload blast to take down her shields.

Zia isn’t alone, and her crew comes barreling through the doors, armored up and weapons ready.

Grabbing Anthony by the arm, Reyes drags him into cover. He snatches at Anthony’s helmet, sticking it on and waiting for the seal to close. “You’re a madman,” Reyes shouts over the sound of gunfire.

“You’ve told me that before,” Anthony’s lips keep moving.

Reyes realizes that he’s counting down. Waiting for his powers to recharge. When he reaches zero, he pops up out of cover just long enough to send out Overload first, then Incinerate.

“It’s still true,” Reyes finishes, once Anthony is crouched back down. Up ahead of them Peebee and Jaal are exchanging gunfire with Zia’s squad.

“What I said is true, too.” Anthony gets the last word in before Reyes dashes to the next crate over. “You’re a better man than people think.”

\--

It’s dark before they finish burying Zia. It seems wrong to leave her body out in the open.

There are so many corpses on Kadara. Most get tossed into shallow pools, waiting for the poisoned water to break apart their bodies. But Anthony is going to heal the planet. That’s what he does, as Pathfinder. And Reyes thinks maybe, one day, they’re going to be able to drink that water. He’d rather not think of Zia in it.

Peebee shrugs off the suggestion that she has to help, instead fiddling with some dataset on her tablet while Jaal, Reyes, and Anthony take care of the bodies.

They’ve all seen enough of death. Burying Zia doesn’t bother him.

\--

Once they reach the slums, Anthony sends Peebee and Jaal on ahead to the Tempest. He lingers behind with Reyes. Jaal looks back, but does not stay, getting into the elevator with Peebee.

“Are you leaving then?” Reyes asks.

They stand on neutral ground, their boots still on Kadaran soil. The metal and polymer mesh of the slums rises up beside them. A spider’s web of necessity. Over their heads, the sky is blotted out by the metal floor of the Port proper. One day, Reyes will hold everything they see and more in his own two hands.

But he is keenly aware that he may never hold Anthony.

“No,” Anthony says.

And Reyes heart skips, once, twice, before it hits its natural rhythm again, “Is that so?”

“We’re going to activate the Vault,” Anthony grabs at his own shoulder, crossing his arm over his chest. “You could help?”

Reyes can’t. There are so many reasons that he can’t help Anthony with his. He can’t let who he is, what he’s done, tarnish the work that Anthony is doing here, on Kadara, and across the galaxy. He can’t have Jaal keeping tabs on his every breath. He can’t have Peebee trying to make polite conversation. He can’t leave his own plans for the planet unattended and he can’t leave Keema alone at Port. No matter how often she protests that nothing is about to happen to her. She has a target on her back, same as Reyes.

“I’m not sure stumbling through underground ruins, searching out strange, alien technologies is quite my speed,” Reyes smiles in the dark. The lights from the buildings overhead are not quite enough to illuminate their faces. But they cast shadows across Anthony’s expression. He’s solemn, almost sad. His eyes look black, and only black. With no lingering warmth to bask in.

Taking his hand off his shoulder, Anthony stands still a moment more. His lips move, then his hand, stretching out to brush his fingers against Reyes’ chestplate. Then withdraw. Reyes breathes deeply. Almost too terrified to move. As if a sudden action will cause Anthony to retreat like prey, a cornered animal.

“You’ll hurt me, won’t you?” Anthony asks. His hand still extended in mid-air. It’s the same gesture he uses when deploying powers, fingers only slightly curled.

Reyes is a liar, but he tells the truth, “Yes.”

Anthony drops his hand, but doesn’t leave.

“I’m not a good man,” Reyes promises.

Anthony responds, “Neither am I.”

Maybe there are no good men left. But that still doesn’t place them on equal footing.

Anthony takes half a step forward, dipping his head low enough to reach Reyes’ lips, but he doesn’t close the gap between them.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Reyes admits. They’re so close now, he can feel Anthony’s breath against his mouth. Anthony’s lips are pink from being bitten, raw where he’s torn away the skin. “But I will. I’m a liar, and a murderer, and a cheat.”

Anthony’s breathing shudders as he turns and walks towards the elevators.


	10. There are Two of Me. Enough for an Eighth of the Fires I Must Put Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as a heads up, this chapter contains a fair amount of (mostly sfw) mRyder/Jaal content. It is not going to continue long term, so I'm not adding it to the tags. But if for some reason you're avoiding content for that pairing, it is probably feasible for you to skip this chapter and continue on with the next. Everything is resolved within this chapter.

It takes four days to activate the monoliths and purify the vault.

Ryder finds the Vault on Kadara as fascinating, as stunning, and as overwhelming as every vault before. They have little time to dwell, to understand the complex sciences that make each vault unique. But Ryder feels as if he stands on the edge of some great truth. Because the more he thinks about what happens, the less he believes his ability to control the Vaults is because of SAM alone.

“SAM?” he sits on the floor of his quarters on the Tempest, his legs crossed and feet bare.

“Pathfinder.”

“The Remnant tech...it’s...not just you working it, is it? I mean, you need my hand. I have to touch it. Could it be any hand?”

“I still cannot fully analyze the Remnant technology. Though I am able to interact with it. It requires an organic component.”

Ryder holds his hand out in front of his face. First looking at the back, then his palm, then back at his knuckles. There are cuts, tiny scars, that he didn’t have before. Callouses a little rougher. Though he usually wears gloves in combat, he’s still doing more brute work than he has….ever.

“So, any hand, not just mine.”

“Not any,” SAM says.

Ryder isn’t sure he believes it. But there’s no way to actually test. To interact with SAM, the Pathfinder needs an implant. And not everyone in the Initiative has been implanted.

And then, he realizes,

_**You told me before, that you were never intended for Harper. That if something happened to my father. It would be me, or Aurelia.** _

_Yes._

_**But it’s more than that. Isn’t it? Harper’s implant. She can’t support you. She can never merge with you.** _

_Cora Harper’s original biotic implant was replaced prior to the Initiative’s departure from the Milky Way. She has been fitted with an implant that will allow her to interface with a SAM._

_**A SAM. But not you. Aurelia and I, our implants are different from the other Pathfinder candidates. They’re made for you. Not “a SAM.”** _

SAM goes quiet.

**_SAM, what happens to you if both Aurelia and I die?_ **

_I do not know._

\--

“Ryder, our resupply came through. We’re going to get a jump on some mod work, want to swing by?” Kosta’s voice comes in over the ship comms.

Ryder had been dozing, face first in his pillow. He hadn’t thought to shut off his comms, too worried that he might miss something important. Like leaving Kadara Port. It’s an irrational concern. Since they won’t depart without his command.

“Um, who’s we?” he asks.

“Jaal and I. Come on, you can’t lock yourself away until we reach Meridian, right?” Kosta’s voice is bright on the other end.

Then Jaal’s voice rings through on the second channel, “I am learning a great deal from Liam about your weapons manufacturing process. But he said that you have a greater understanding of the fine details of the powers sub-systems.”

They’re trying to tempt him out of his room with promises of conversations he can keep up with. One of them must have gotten pointers from Peebee or Brodie.

Ryder scrubs his face with one hand, trying to work away the sleep. “Okay,” he concedes. His voice is still raspy, “Be there in a minute.”

He pads around his room, looking for his hoodie and his belt. He’d fallen asleep in his jeans and socks. Slipping on his sneakers, he leaves the laces loose. He runs his fingers through his hair as he heads towards the cargo hold. His hair isn’t long enough to have gotten that messy.

When Ryder fails to find Kosta and Jaal in the cargo hold, he keeps walking towards Kosta’s room. The door is unlocked, so he lets himself in. They’re expecting him, after all.

Jaal and Kosta are hunched over a workbench. Kosta’s old, damaged chestplate is on the table, laid out like a cadaver. They’ve already started taking it apart, working the plates apart using leverage and force.

“Ryder, glad that you could join us,” Kosta wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

It takes Ryder a moment to even register that they’re both naked from the waist up.

“Ryder,” Jaal smiles at him, “I’m happy you decided to join us.”

Ryder looks away, over towards the wall. He manages to get out, “What are you doing?”

“We’re taking apart some of our old gear. You know,” Kosta goes back to trying to split armor plates apart. He's using a screwdriver jammed into a tiny fracture in a welded seam. “Jaal’s tech powers are remarkably similar to ours. But the way they’re wired through his armor. Way, way different. We were thinking you might know more.”

Ryder grits his teeth, “Okay, sure.”

Kosta turns away from the bench, grabbing his beer off the end table and swigging down. Ryder keeps his eyes focused on the chestplate. “Do we have one of yours too, Jaal?”

Jaal hums in the affirmative, bending over to retrieve and intact, but dented, Angara chest piece.

At this point, Ryder doesn't know if it's strange to bring up that the other two are shirtless, or stranger still to say nothing. Kosta shoves a beer at Jaal, assuring him Lexi is certain there's nothing in it that Jaal would react poorly to. The Angara on Kadara have been drinking Milky Way alcohols for months.

Without asking if Ryder wants a drink, Kosta pops open another can, setting it on the workbench far enough away that Ryder won't knock it over as he's stripping the armor. But still close enough he knows it's for him.

“Thanks,” he says, remaining cautious as he shifts his eyes from the armor to the can.

Kosta isn't completely oblivious, picking up on Anthony’s discomfort. He grabs his shirt off the back of the couch. And though it's sweat-stained, he pulls it back on. “We were trying out each other’s armor,” he gives by way of explanation.

“Oh,” Anthony acknowledges, still trying to wedge the screwdriver in and pop the plates apart to get at the Angara wiring. He can see the termination points, but he's curious what kind of conductive elements they use.

Jaal exhales loudly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Humans are reserved about nudity, yes? Or is it like touch, some more than others?”

“Like touch,” Kosta replies. “Cultural, you know? Humans have more than one culture. I'm from Earth,” Kosta starts to explain. “Ryder here is Citadel, born and raised, right?”

Ryder grunts in reply. He's finally got the plates apart. The mesh inside is dense, but soft to the touch.

“So, he grew up with lots of different species around. My friends? Mostly humans. Though I worked with all sorts once I was older.”

“Wouldn't that make Ryder more--”

Ryder speaks up for himself this time, “My sister is really outgoing. It's not just because I grew up on the Citadel. Sometimes, you just…” he shakes his head, “it's just my personality.”

“I like your personality,” Jaal says with firm finality. “Even though you do not like being touched. And nudity makes you uncomfortable.” Jaal steps away from the workbench, “I will get dressed. So you are comfortable.”

Cheeks warming, Ryder almost tells Jaal that it's alright. He doesn't have to wear a shirt on his account.

_**SAM?** _

_I'm sorry, Pathfinder. I do not know. His vital signs are inconclusive._

Ryder waits for Jaal to finish dressing. He fumbles with the screwdriver he no longer needs. It's still too hard to look at Jaal’s face, instead, he directs his gaze towards Jaal’s hands.

“Can we talk….alone?” Ryder asks.

Kosta takes his beer, heading towards the door. That's not right. This is his room, they shouldn't kick him out. But Ryder is infinitely thankful that Kosta understands.

“Ryder….what is wrong?” Jaal's voice is cut through with concern.

Sucking air between his teeth, Ryder finally looks into Jaal’s eyes. His eyes are so, so kind. Jaal has been nothing but kind to him since Havarl. Ryder has offered so little in return, too incapacitated by his own fears and grief. For what he as already lost, and what he still stands to lose.

“Jaal...you know I'm gay, right?” It seems as good a place as any to start.

“Ah, yes. Liam explained. The translators could not make a match.”

“Right,” Ryder runs his hand through the front of his hair. SAM’s knowledge of Angara customs has been greatly expanded since coming to Kadara. “Your language doesn't distinguish. Right? Angara have preferences, like Milky Way species. But you just don't have the words.”

“Yes, the love we feel for our mates, we don't differentiate based on gender. But we each know our own desires.”

“Right,” Ryder pulls at his shoulder instead of fucking with the screwdriver.

“But Liam explained. You are only interested in loving men. Like he is only interested in loving women.”

“Yeah,” that's the gist of it, in any case.

Jaal’s lips part in a gentle ‘o’ as he realizes something, “Is that why our nudity made you uncomfortable?”

It's not that simple, but at least Jaal is starting to catch on. “No, I mean, with Kosta, it's fine. We’ve been good since the start. But it isn't...just the nudity, Jaal,” his voice goes soft. “It's you,” he covers his face with both his hands. This is easier to say if he's not looking, “I don't know...you're very affectionate, Jaal. When we were on the last mission, you kept trying to touch me.”

“I did not notice…”

_He’s lying._

“You do it all the time,” it's dark inside of Ryder’s cupped hands. “Like you want to, but then you don't. And you tell me all these kind things. When we’re alone, in front of other people. And I don't want to get the wrong idea. But I'm not sure if it's the wrong idea.” Ryder finally drags away his hands away from his eyes, though he keeps them over his nose and mouth, he manages to look directly at Jaal again. Even if the eye contact is only brief. “What do you want from me?” he's proud of himself, because he keeps his voice from cracking.

Jaal frowns, his hands twitching at his sides. Ryder is pretty sure that Jaal wants to reach out, to hug him, hold him close. SAM stays silent. He has to get through this alone.

“I do not know,” Jaal admits. “You are...so different from me. You are so blindingly special, Ryder. And you make me into a better person. I am a better person for being here. I feel...as if I have found my purpose.”

Clamping his jaw tight, Ryder looks away. That's not even an answer. He tries again, “Do you want me?”

Jaal steps around the workbench, so they stand chest to chest. Though Jaal is several inches shorter, Ryder’s rounded shoulders, the way he folds into himself, makes the difference slighter.

Reaching up with both hands, Jaal takes Ryder’s face between his palms. Gentle, unhurried. His hands are warm. And Ryder wants to flee.

“I do not know,” Jaal admits, “I would like to find out.”

Six months ago, but really six-hundred years, Ryder would smile and nod, dragging Jaal to his quarters, to his bed. Fuck him senseless just for fun. Laugh about it in the morning. Because what's the harm in trying? He’ll get his fix either way.

Ryder tangles his fingers in the front of Jaal’s cape squeezing down tight. Then he squeezes his eyes shut.

“I'm not,” Ryder whines, “I wish I could. I wish.”

“We can,” Jaal rumbles. “Though, maybe not here,” he concedes. “We should be courteous.”

Ryder laughs with a sort of hysterical panic. Hacking noises rising in his lungs. No, not here, surrounded by Kosta’s things.

“Come to my quarters?” Ryder asks, his grip loosening. “Let's find out…”

Jaal smiles, wrapping Ryder in a tight embrace, “Yes, let us.”

Walking with Jaal’s hand in his, Ryder feels terrifyingly giddy. All twisted up inside. He's had sex with aliens before. Plenty. Mostly Turians. And a handful of Salarians, who always made a show of how they were “different,” for wanting intercourse for pleasure.

They don't encounter any of the other crew as they walk back towards the Pathfinder’s quarters. The doors slide open when Ryder approaches, welcoming them inside.

“So,” he drops Jaal’s hand, reaching for the neck of his hoodie and stretching out the fabric there, “how much do you...know about human anatomy? What it's like?”

Jaal doesn't answer him, stepping closer to cradle Ryder’s face again. This time, Jaal brings their mouths together, brief at first. The thinness of his lips, the flatness of his nose, the unrelenting heat of his body, all things are swallowed down in that moment, however short.

“I know that this human is too tall,” Jaal jokes. Only then does Ryder realize that he's coming up as high as possible on the balls of his feet.

Ryder turns, looking towards the bed, “We can sit...or lay down...if you're comfortable.”

They start out sitting, legs slung over the edge of the bed. Jaal coaxes his mouth open, kiss by kiss, his saliva tinged with a sort of salty-sweetness that Ryder doesn't find unpleasant.

Ryder has always been better with his hands. Not his mouth. Reaching out, around Jaal’s shoulders, he drags them both down in the quiet of the room. Ryder’s back hits the mattress first, letting Jaal splay out on top of him. Though Jaal is shorter, he's certainly heavier. Too heavy for Ryder to drag around with ease.

Their lips meet and part in a shaky rhythm. The room is too hot. They're wearing too much. Ryder starts to forget himself. Shifting his weight again, he finally pulls Jaal over him, raking his fingers down Jaal’s chest, trying to grind his hips to meet the body above him.

_Pathfinder…_

_**I know.** _

The suddenness of the realization gives Ryder whiplash.

“Why lie to me?” Ryder asks, pulling his hands away. He lets his arms flop back against the mattress.

“Ryder?”

“You don't enjoy this…”

“I could...learn,” Jaal says.

Ryder closes his eyes and laughs, “You don't have to. It's okay. You don't have to. It's okay."

“I could take care of you,” Jaal soothes, “I want to be by your side.”

“No,” Ryder turns his head away, staring at the wall instead. “I mean it. It's okay. We don't...have to change.”

“I care so much for you, Anthony. Let me do this.”

Ryder lays beneath Jaal, frozen with indecision. It would be easiest to just relent. Jaal is a good man. Kind, and true. There is no reason to doubt his sincerity. They could learn.

“I can't,” Ryder’s voice falters and fades, “we both deserve to be happy...it's not going to be...with each other.”

Jaal rolls from on top of Ryder to lay at his side instead. They stay close, sharing heat and time. “Love does not always come easily. But that makes the fruit of it no less sweet.”

Ryder throws his arm over his eyes and laughs, “I wish, sometimes, that love was the only thing that mattered. But Jaal, you don't find me attractive. It's okay.”

“I do.”

Ryder realizes he must be crude, “You don't want to fuck me. Or get fucked by me.”

“Not yet…”

“You know,” this is embarrassing to admit, “I spent so much time...researching. Looking at Angara anatomy to figure out how we’d fit.”

“You've been thinking about this for a long time?”

“Yeah,” Ryder admits, “and you haven't. Because it didn't occur to you, did it?”

“When Kosta-”

Ryder realizes, “You didn't think of me like that, until he explained that I was gay.”

The smile in Jaal’s voice is clear, “I suppose I hadn't.”

“So why try and force yourself?” Ryder is curious, if nothing else.

Jaal laughs beside him, “You will find it very silly.”

“Not as ridiculous as everything else that's happened today...fuck.”

“Well,” Jaal rolls over onto his stomach, propping himself up onto his elbow so he can look at Ryder. “I saw how you looked at Shena.”

Ryder tenses, keeping his arm taut over his eyes. This is embarrassing.

“He is,” Jaal tries to find the words, “not good for you. I have heard things. About the kind of man that he is. There is a reason other criminals want him dead. I thought, if I could show you another option. I thought I could take his place. You seemed open to the possibility.”

“Yeah,” Ryder responds, “you're pretty hot, okay? And you're so kind. And way more open than I'm used to. So maybe I was reading the signals wrong.”

“You weren't. I wasn't sure myself.”

This is a weight off Ryder’s shoulders, that they've managed to talk about this. Even if it will be weeks before he’ll be able to even look at Jaal without his heart rate speeding up. Without thinking about the heat shared between their skin, however frustratingly aborted.

“You sure now?” Ryder asks.

“I mean it, we could try to make it work.”

This is it. Their last chance.

“I'm glad to have you on my team.”

\--

“Pathfinder, Mr. Vidal is on the vidcom,” SAM informs him.

“Oh, sure,” Ryder doesn't bother with his shoes, heading upstairs to the conference room.

SAM patches the call through on Ryder’s command, and the holo approximation of Vidal’s figure appears on the comms.

“Anthony,” Vidal starts, “I have an invitation for you.”

“An invitation?”

“Yes, yes. You are still at Port, are you not?”

“Yes,” he scrapes his nails against the metal railing, wearing them down.

“Our esteemed friend, Sloane, is having a party. Tonight. And I would like very much for you to be my plus-one.”

Ryder frowns, “What are you planning?”

“To show you a good time.”

“Are you asking me out?” Ryder asks.

Vidal responds, “Did you say something? The comms didn't pick it up?”

Ryder clears his throat, “Is this a date, then?”

“Do you want it to be? I assure you, I can be a perfect gentleman. I only thought, you'd like the opportunity to relax, before your next mission.”

Sticking his nail into his mouth, Ryder bites down, breaking through and then tearing with his teeth. He doesn't realize what he's done until it's too late. He's bitten too deep and his finger throbs. “How should I dress?”

“Like yourself,” Vidal corrects, “perhaps a little nicer. It is a special occasion, after all.”

“Okay, okay,” Ryder agrees, trying to keep his hands away from his face.

“See you then,” the comms go dark.

Ryder drops onto his knees, hanging his arms over the railing above his head. Well, shit.


	11. This is what you were waiting for. What you hoped for in this darkness.

Most of the lights are off in Keema’s apartment. They’re only having a glass of wine together before she heads down to Sloane’s party.

Reyes still has other preparations to make, easily accomplished within a few minutes. But they shouldn't arrive to Sloane’s together anyway.

Only the artificial sunlight bulb in the kitchen is on, casting shadows across Keema’s countertops. There’s a youth, Daera, who comes by twice a week to clean. Keema pays her above the going rate, even though she’s convinced the girl never saves any of it. It doesn’t matter, Keema is not one of her mothers. Daera isn’t her responsibility.

“Is he coming?” Keema asks, putting her glass to her lips. The wine stains them berry-red.

Reyes leans over the kitchen bar, elbows firmly planted, “He said he would.”

“Are you going to tell him?” she tilts her head to one side, finishing her wine and setting the glass aside. There will be more at the party.

Rubbing at his eyes, Reyes argues, “Now is not the time.”

Keema smiles, “When is the time to admit that you have deceived him? After you leave him cold and broken outside your door?”

“Keema,” Reyes sighs. He has no such intentions. “I won’t have to. We’re not,” he corrects himself, “I’m not trying to pursue him.” He downs the last of his wine as well. The bottle is empty. They were simply sharing the last of an already-open vintage.

“Of course you are. You invited him, did you not?” Keema turns away, taking both their glasses to the sink for washing. She won’t wash them. But at least now they’re out of the way.

She leaves the kitchen, looking for her keys. They’re never where she left them. Reyes knows they can be in one of three places: her front pocket against her chest, the hand-struck metal bowl by the door, or on the second shelf of her bookcase, next to the small, flowering plant she never waters.

That is where she finds her keys.

Reyes still doesn’t have an answer for her regarding Anthony. At least not one she’ll accept. “Lock up before you go,” she reminds him.

Reyes’ key for the apartment is in his pocket, “The maglock too?”

“Don’t bother,” Keema waves him off, “I’m expecting visitors anyway.” She puts a single finger against her chest, for the only bug in her apartment tonight. The way she smiles tells him it’s one of his. They’re usually polite and don’t disturb her things too much. He should start spreading a message along the lines that Collective members should water her plant during each break in.

Keema departs, leaving Reyes alone in her kitchen. He goes to wash the glasses. If he doesn’t do it, they’ll sit for days. He washes them, then dries them with the hand towel thrown carelessly on the counter. Once they are put away, he gets his data tablet from the adjoining living room.

Spreading himself across the couch, he pulls up the architectural diagrams of Sloane’s base of operations. The drawings from the Kadara Centralized Administration Office are at least ten years out of date. From when the structure was first erected. But over the official plans, he overlays what he’s gathered from other sources, until he has a near-complete map of the building.

Next he recalls the Initiative records from just before his own departure from the Nexus, six days after Sloane and the exiles were evicted. The records catalogue what crates went missing with the exiles, though dozens of additional boxes have arrived since then.

The bottle should be in crate FC-1212. Sloane probably doesn’t even know about the Mount Milgrom. The exiles just took the crates because they were alcohol. Like they took food and clothing and medicine. Besides, she won’t miss the whiskey. Reyes knows she prefers beer, on the very rare occasion that she even drinks.

This is just a game. Something to distract him from what lies ahead. The pieces have been set in motion. But there is still time for Reyes to back out. He stares down at his tablet screen, ghosting his fingers over the smooth surface.

There’s still the option to forget this. Forget Kadara. Leave it to Sloane to lead or strangle. Reyes...Reyes thinks he can survive in either case. But he’s tired of just surviving. He could have hung on to life in the Milky Way. Here he can be something more.

But he’s in his old habits. Galaxies can’t break him apart, remake him into a new man. He’s the same as he ever was. Different stars. What a joke.

He leaves the tablet on Keema’s coffee table. The Collective members who plan to sweep the apartment later will find it, but they’ll never crack the encryption, or trace it back to him. They all use the proprietary software the Charlatan financed and distributed to the Omni-tools of a select few. Trying to hack his own devices will throw up a red herring, a randomized dataset. Sometimes, they’re pretty funny. Like a mad-lib with an intrigue theme. He’ll get a laugh out of it later.

\--

“I just...I’m, ah, here to meet someone…”

Reyes recognizes Anthony’s voice up ahead. He’s honestly surprised that Anthony is on time. Part of him was expecting Anthony not to show at all. There’s a discomfort that follows the Pathfinder in a crowd. Like a thick fog swirling above his head.

From behind, Anthony looks impossibly narrow. Instead of his usual hoodie and jeans, he wears a collared shirt, with thin, blue pinstripes. His slim-cut trousers aren’t quite the right shade of khaki brown to match the shirt, but largely the combination is inoffensive. The shirt isn’t ironed properly, still wrinkled and clearly fresh out of storage or the laundry. Anthony wears the same obnoxious sneakers, though this time in blue instead of red.

Stepping up behind Anthony, Reyes drags his hand against the small of Anthony’s back, letting it rest an inch above his tailbone, just above the waistband of his slacks. “My name is on the list,” Reyes tells the guard. He can feel Anthony tense under his hand, then relax when Reyes speaks. “Reyes Vidal. He is with me,” Reyes slips his hand from Anthony’s back to his hip, curling his fingers loosely around his waist. Without the bulk of the hoodie, he can tell how thin Anthony really is.

“Alright, go ahead. Don’t cause any trouble, Vidal.”

Reyes laughs, “Why did Sloane even invite me then?” Dragging his hand off of Anthony’s hip, he walks towards Sloane’s throne room, assuming Anthony will follow him. It only takes a moment for Anthony to catch up and fall in stride at Reyes’ side.

“Thank you,’ Anthony says, his voice just above a whisper. If Reyes didn’t know Anthony’s habit of speaking too softly, he might have missed the gratitude.

Mercifully, the main hall isn't particularly crowded yet. Sloane holds court, however apathetically, at the head of the room. The Kadara sun ablaze behind her head.

The first time Reyes met her, he was taken by her soft, cherub-cheeks and the mismatched color of her eyes. She is pretty, youthful when she does not speak, but she lacks any sort of natural charisma. In a way, it is stunning that she has attained such heights on skill alone. He envies her.

“Come now,” Reyes nods towards the bar, “Umi is working this evening.” Keeping his hands to himself, Reyes leads the way, ordering for them both.

Anthony picks his own glass up from the bartop, drinking it down too quickly before setting the cup back down. Reyes laughs, not even putting his drink to his lips. He needs to remain clear-headed. There will be enough time to get buzzed later.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Pathfinder,” Umi is already mixing another round for Anthony. Sloane is covering the cost of alcohol, as any host would. But Reyes transfers credits to Umi’s til as tip.

Anthony nurses the second drink, holding it close to his chest. The room is starting to fill up, the who’s-who of Kadara mingling despite their varied allegiances.

“Why did you invite me?” Anthony asks. Only then does Reyes realize Anthony’s glass is empty again. His own, still full.

“Do you not find the party relaxing? Fun? Invigorating?” Reyes questions.

Anthony shrugs his shoulders, “It’s a lot of people to be around.” The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing the neckline of his tee underneath. The white of it is stark against the warm brown of his skin.

Reyes nods, “That is true. Alright, let me admit to a bit of selfishness,” he skims his hand against Anthony’s hip, letting his fingers rest against the jut of bone. Were Anthony shorter, he might do the same to his shoulder, the long line of neck. But reaching up doesn’t come naturally to him. He’s accustomed to being taller. “Maybe I wanted to be seen with you?”

“Because I’m the Pathfinder,” Anthony states.

“Because you’re deliriously handsome,” it’s a moment of vulnerability, played off in such a way Anthony could take it as a joke. Under his fingers, Reyes feels Anthony shift his weight. He watches as Anthony parts his lips. “I knew you’d clean up well. Even if you didn’t brush your hair.”

“I did,” Anthony argues.

“You didn’t.”

“Okay, I didn’t,” Anthony finally concedes.

Reyes can’t help but smile, Though it’s discouraging when Anthony doesn’t smile back. “Come, you should meet my friend,” Reyes wants to take Anthony’s hand in his, lead him over to Keema to make introductions. But he hesitates. It’s too close, too familiar and affectionate.

And after all, they were honest with each other, the last time they parted. When Anthony confirmed what they both knew. Reyes is bad for him. Bad for the Initiative, just awful.

Oh, but he could be so good to Anthony too. If only for an hour.

Anthony follows him across the room. Once Keema catches sight of them, she begs off the conversation she’s currently holding with an Asari and another Angara woman. Not a conquest then. Or maybe, still a conquest.

“Reyes,” she holds her arms out, waiting for a hug, as if they have been parted for more than an hour. “And who is this?” she asks, turning her attention to Anthony. Among the Angara, Keema is the finest liar he’s ever met.

“This is Anthony Ryder, you may have heard of him?”

Keema smirks, patting Anthony on the arm, “Our mutual friend has told me so much about you.” She pulls her hand back.

“Oh, um,” Anthony looks straight ahead. But it’s not really at Keema, rather, the wall by the side of her head. It keeps his eyes in the right direction. But it must be terribly obvious to anyone he’s speaking with. “Hi,” he takes a quick sip of his third drink.

“If you could excuse me for a moment,” he touches Anthony’s shoulder briefly, “You will be in excellent hands with Keema. I will not be long.”

Anthony opens and closes his mouth, but Reyes is fairly sure there are no words this time. Just the silent, unarticulated refusal. But he has to do this. He’s promised himself to see this through. No matter how small or petty in the grand scheme of things. This is a goal he has set, and he’s going to achieve it.

Leaving Anthony to Keema, Reyes is certain that she is about to grill the Pathfinder for information. Maybe more than Anthony is willing to share with him. Or that he is willing to share with Anthony. Maybe talking to Keema will be...good for both of them.

What is he doing?

Anthony may want him, as Reyes certainly wants Anthony, but that doesn’t mean that they can have this. Have anything. Reyes snickers at himself for being so indecisive.

He walks the halls of Sloane’s compound, counting out his steps and turns until he reaches the correct door. Placing his Omni against the lock, he waits for the mag to disengage. He’s certain this is the right room.

The door slides open and indeed the room is filled with crates, stacked high against the walls. Time to look for serial numbers. Too bad they’re never standardized. Reyes tries to narrow down the search with his Omni, but it’s no use. He’ll have to find the serial numbers one by one.

Though he’s focused on his task, he’s still alert enough to hear when the door behind him slides open. He’s come to the party unarmed. Though he might be caught by Sloane’s guards, it would be foolish to fight them here. He’ll go quietly.

“This is why you brought me here,” Anthony says.

Reyes whips his head around, still crouched low by one of the crates. This is the wrong one too. “Anthony,” the name feels wet in his mouth.

“I was supposed to be a distraction, so you could steal from Sloane.”

“No,” Reyes is a liar. He knows this about himself. Standing to his full height, he corrects, “Not entirely. It wasn’t the only reason,” he bites his tongue.

Anthony’s shoulders drop. He laughs, bitter and short, “I haven’t changed at all.”

“You haven’t changed?” Reyes has no frame of reference.

They both hear the boots outside the door, and the click of an Omni against the lock. Unless by some miracle that is Keema, they are both about to be very, very fucked.

Anthony’s eyes go a little wide with panic and Reyes forgets to breathe. Because he’s seen that look before, each time Anthony acts in combat without thinking straight. That impulsive, terrifyingly reckless heartbeat in which Anthony loses himself, instincts taking over.

Though Anthony isn’t in his armor, an irrational part of Reyes thinks he can still spit fire from his hands. That he’ll burn this whole place down to keep from getting caught.

But instead of setting fire to the floor, Anthony swings his body sharply towards Reyes, clumsily cradling his face between long-fingered hands. The knuckles are all knobby and they're cool and far too clammy. Anthony backs Reyes into the wall, dipping his head down to press their lips together. The hard lines of their bodies meet too, Anthony’s shallow chest pressing into Reyes’ broader one.

And Reyes, Reyes scrambles, reaching up to stick his fingers in Anthony’s messy hair, dragging them both under the influence of this spider-silk moment, tenuous and easily destroyed. But they pretend it's something durable. Like it doesn't matter that Sloane’s operative enters the room, gasps, and leaves, turning on her heels and bolting.

Anthony’s lips part, his mouth wet and open and far too inviting. Far too skilled with the way he wraps his arm around Reyes’ waist, pinned between Reyes’ back and the wall, and holds him close. Every breath convulsing, skittering along the skin between them.

It's a lie.

Anthony is a liar too. The shy mumbling and timid glances. Liar, liar, liar. Because he kisses Reyes like he’s a feast to be devoured. And the seconds they're alone drag on and on. This isn't a distraction anymore. Not with the way Anthony’s fingers spread wide against Reyes’ back, keeping them close until he's sated.

“Anthony,” Reyes says, not knowing how to follow up once they part.

Anthony snatches back his hand as if he's been burned, “Sorry, sorry, oh fuck, I'm sorry.” His dark eyes are wide and glassy. And his breath smells of alcohol, still clinging to his teeth, his gums. Covering his face with one hand, he goes on and on, “sorry, sorry.”

“There's nothing to be sorry for,” Reyes means it. Even if he doesn't know what's going on, he can't regret that Anthony kisses him. Can't forget the heat of his body and the sure strokes of his desire.

Anthony huffs, his face still hidden, “I'm a mess.”

“But a beautiful one.”

“I need a minute.”

Anthony retreats to the corner, putting his back against a crate and crouching low, until his ass almost touches the floor. He keeps his hand over his eyes, the other one fisted tightly in his own dress shirt. Doesn't matter. It was wrinkled anyway.

Reyes leaves him be. If Anthony needs time and space, Reyes should give it to him. Sure, his behavior isn't….normal, but none of them have been normal since coming off of ice. They all find ways to cope.

He tries to be quiet, as he finishes searching the crates. Finding the right one, he pops the lid open, looking for the bottle that he wants.

“Is this what you came here for?” Anthony asks. He looks calmer now, coming up behind Reyes to peek over his shoulder, his hands crammed into the front pockets of his pants. Ruins the line of his slacks.

Reyes nods, “Yes.”

“All this, for whiskey?”

“Not just any whiskey,” Reyes corrects. “Perhaps the finest bottle to cross dark space. It will be unappreciated here. So I am...liberating it,” he smiles.

“Vidal,” Anthony’s voice is breathy, low, laced with arousal still, despite his detour into panic. “Can we get out of here?”

Having no objections, Reyes leads them to the exit.

\--

They drink rare, expensive, irreplaceable Mount Milgrom whiskey straight from the open bottle. Anthony winces on every gulp, but manages to keep the amber liquid down.

“Even if you don't appreciate it,” Reyes teases, “there's no one I'd rather share this with.” He takes another swig.

Anthony’s long legs dangle over the side of the crate they've made their castle, up high and overlooking the docks in the waning light of evening. He taps his sneakers against the side, expelling nervous energy.

The shops have all closed up. Everyone worth noting is still at Sloane’s party. With the streets nearly empty, commerce brought to a standstill, Reyes can almost believe this is all already his. Like he's engineered this moment for him and Anthony. Private, intimate, and vulnerable.

“So, is Andromeda everything you hoped it would be?” Reyes asks, holding out the bottle for Anthony to take.

Wrapping his hand around the bottleneck, Anthony snickers, “Vidal, my father died. My sister is in a coma, and apparently, the fate of at least four, maybe as many as six, species now rests on my less-than-capable shoulders.” He's still smiling, “This is a fucking nightmare.”

Reyes frowns. He knows. He knows what happened to Anthony on paper, reports that circulate from the Nexus, through the Resistance, and rumor too. But hearing it directly from the source is more painful than he could imagine.

“Fuck,” Anthony curses, “I'm not even sure that makes sense.” He shakes his head, “I'm sorry.”

“There's no reason,” Reyes assures, “and I'm sorry too. My question was...insensitive.”

Anthony frowns, his false mirth fading, “I've been unkind to you.”

“You've been nothing of the sort,” now they're just going around in circles.

“I want you,” Anthony croaks, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “I want you so badly. But this is an awful idea.”

Reyes concedes, “Because I'll hurt you.”

“Yeah…” Anthony takes a bigger sip than usual, “And I’ll hurt you too. I thought I could...um, change here. Become a better man.”

“A noble cause.”

“What about you, Reyes?” Anthony’s voice is so quiet, using Reyes’ first name for the first time. “Why did you come here?” his volume stays low.

“To be someone.”

Because that's really all he wants. It's that simple. In the Milky Way, he was no one. A body in a crowd. A mouth and an always-empty credit chit. Ghosting from place to place to place. He's not anyone yet. Just a name, whispered around the Port. Charlatan. But it doesn't mean anything yet. He doesn't mean anything, and yet.

“You are someone,” Anthony’s breath hitches, “to me.”

Reyes looks down into his hands, calloused, scarred, and nimble. “I'm starting to think that kiss wasn't just a distraction,” he jokes.

Anthony shifts his weight, setting the bottle aside and scooting closer to Reyes. Lifting his hand to Anthony’s cheek, Reyes guides them this time, their kiss slower, less frantic than before. This time, Anthony tastes of the ashy whiskey, instead of the cloying sweetness of spirits and fruit. He doesn't know what taste suits Anthony better, only that he wants more.

Anthony lays one hand across Reyes’ thigh. He doesn't push for more, but he opens, blooming against Reyes’ subtle ministrations. Letting himself be guided through their tenuous intimacy.

When they part, Reyes knows it won't be for the last time. But he can't help but sneak in another peck, just at the corner of Anthony’s mouth. Anthony’s hands shake, his fingers starting to curl tight around the top of Reyes’ thigh.

“Reyes, I have to ask you something, okay?”

“Anything,” Reyes reaches out to brush aside Anthony’s hair. It doesn't help what a mess it is. For the first time he realizes that when sitting down, their heights are nearly equal. Anthony is mostly legs.

Anthony scrapes his teeth against his bottom lip, “I'm not...there are others right? Other men?”

“No, there is no one, right now. Just you. Only you,” Reyes assures. He's been single for some time now.

Anthony shakes his head, “Sorry, sorry, not what I meant. I mean,” his nails bite down harder on Reyes’ leg. “You've been with men before?”

Reyes suddenly realizes what Anthony meant, days ago when they exchanged questions and answers, about being an ‘exception,’ “I'm bisexual. I've been with both men and women. Does that bother you?”

Shaking his head, Anthony assures him, “No...no, no. That’s okay. That’s good. I just,” he laughs nervously. “Just making sure. I'm gay, um, so you know too.”

Reyes smiles, “I had my suspicions.”

Anthony groans, finally pulling his hand back to cover his face. Reyes misses the pressure of his fingers as soon as they break contact.


	12. Embrasure

“Tempest,” Ryder breathes, “closer.” He tangles his fingers through Reyes’ hair, pulling as he gets a fistful, messing up its careful placement.

They've made it as far as the docks. And while it's quiet at the threshold of day and night, the location is still too obnoxiously public for Ryder to start on the long list of things he wants to do to Reyes. That he wants Reyes to do to him.

His blood still has enough liquor in it that Ryder can be brave. He moans into Reyes’ open mouth, slotting his leg in between Reyes’ thighs. He lifts his knee higher, higher, until he feels Reyes grind back down against it. Throwing his head back against the pillar behind them, Ryder coaxes him with pleas for _**more.**_

_Pathfinder._

Ryder ignores the hail from SAM, instead pulling at Reyes’ hair again, straining his neck to one side. Putting his mouth to Reyes’ skin, Ryder slides his tongue along Reyes’ pulsepoint, tasting the salt and ash on his skin.

“Or else I'll suck you right here,” Ryder warns.

Reyes groans, reaching around to grab at Ryder’s ass. Not that he exactly has much to grab. But Reyes doesn't seem to care, holding tight and starting to pull at him, stretching out his slacks. The only nice pair of pants he's got.

“So much for being a gentleman,” Reyes concedes. “Don't tempt me. I'll put you on your knees right here.”

“Do it,” Ryder challenges, dropping his hands from Reyes’ hair. Sliding them down his chest instead. He’ll tear the clothes right off of him. Underneath his shirt, Reyes is warm. Ryder thinks his own hands feverish, coming to rest at Reyes’ belt.

Reyes smiles, smirks, really, one side coming up higher than the other. He shifts so his mouth is just below Ryder’s ear, “Be careful what you wish for. I'm untrustworthy, after all.”

Putting his hands on Ryder’s shoulders, Reyes starts to push him down. Ryder only offers the barest edge of resistance, dropping down with his back still straight against the pillar as he falls to his knees.

They're out in the open, exposed. Could be found out at any moment. Leaning forward, Ryder drags his nose and parted lips over the outline of Reyes’ erection, distinct enough through the fabric of his trousers.

_Pathfinder. This would be unwise. A lifeform is approaching._

Ryder groans, low in his throat and needy. He swears he can smell Reyes’ arousal. He can definitely feel his fingers in his hair, not pulling, merely playing.

Reaching out, Ryder wraps his hands around the front of Reyes’ thighs. SAM is right, they can't do this here, “the Tempest.”

“Your squadmates will not approve,” Reyes bucks forward languidly, rubbing his covered cock against Ryder’s cheek,

“None of them are about to fuck me,” Ryder sneers, pushing himself to his feet. “But you are.”

They stumble in the direction of the Tempest. Finding their feet as their erections fade.

At minimum, Jath and Brodie are still aboard. Hard to tell who else. They're scheduled to leave the planet soon. Their trip out to Meridian.

Anwar sticks her head out from the cockpit, as Reyes and Ryder come aboard. She starts to chirp, “Hello Path-” before she sees he’s not alone. Whatever she was working on before at her console becomes intensely interesting once again.

Ryder pulls Reyes towards the ladder. Mumbling, he reminds Reyes to watch his step, but Reyes grabs hold of the side railings and slides all the way to the lower deck in one impossibly smooth motion.

Once inside the Pathfinder’s quarters, Ryder tells SAM to lock the door. Shut off his comm, and go away. He expects one last standardized call of, _Pathfinder._ But it never comes.

Ryder toes off his shoes, not bothering with the laces. He kicks them aside, one by one, while Reyes more deliberately removes his boots. Though the frantic, thudding pressure to put his body against Reyes’ has cooled a little, Ryder still can think of little else.

He grabs Reyes by the front of his shirt, once his boots are off, dragging him towards the bed. Ryder hits the mattress, pulling Reyes on top of him, thighs spread over Ryder’s hips.

“What happened to getting you on your knees?”

“You won't be disappointed,” Ryder rasps, clawing at Reyes’ shoulders, trying to get his shirt off. Reyes laughs, fingering open the first and second button before Ryder can pull off both his shirt and undershirt in a single tug. They get sort of tripped up when the cuffs catch around Reyes’ wrists, but Reyes gets those buttons open too.

Reyes’ body is just about perfect. Fucking divine. With well-defined arms, and abs if he twists in just the right direction. But there's a layer of fat on top, that keeps him looking broad and fucking masculine in a way that makes Ryder’s head spin. A trail of dark hair cutting down the center of his abdomen and disappearing beneath his belt buckle. Ryder can't help but paw at Reyes’ weirdly-expensive looking belt, working the clasp open then fingers flying for the button fly.

“What about you?” Reyes leans over, putting his mouth on Ryder’s neck.

He’s fiercer, harsher than Ryder was, scraping his teeth on two successive bites, before sinking down hard enough to make Ryder gasp. “Want to see you,” Reyes slides his hand under Ryder’s shirt, using the other to support his weight. Rucking up Ryder’s button down, he latches his index and middle fingers around one nipple, squeezing it in between until it stands up at attention.

There's no easy way to get Ryder’s shirt off, so Reyes just keeps on pushing until it's bunched up around his armpits, the shallow, sickly expanse of his chest on display. Ryder knows what he looks like. Knows what he could do to change the fact his ribs stick out like a gently sloping wire cage. But he also knows full well that to some men, the thinness of his frame is part of the appeal. Getting to fold their fingers into the dips of bone and skin, feeling how his chest expands under their hands.

“Pretty, pretty,” Reyes teases, “like a poorly wrapped gift, just for me.” He leans over again, this time curling his spine to latch his mouth over one of Ryder’s brown nipples, scraping his teeth against delicate, thin skin,

Ryder huffs, “Tried to dress alright.”

Reyes looks up, a thread of saliva breaking from his lip as he leaves Ryder’s nipple, “I appreciate the effort. I assure you. And don't worry, there's time for me to mess you up more.”

Groaning, Ryder tugs at Reyes hips, “Come up here and fuck my mouth.”

Reyes almost squeaks in surprise, catching himself just short, “You're so fucking filthy. I had no idea.” Reyes presses his palm down over his erection. “You're usually such a quiet thing, shy…”

“I know what I'm good at,” Ryder counters, “I know what you want.” This is the easiest thing in the world for him. To forget about himself for a little bit. To move on sensation, remembering that he can toss this all away, start over if he needs to. If this goes badly, he can forget about Reyes even existing.

Ryder knows he’s such a fucking liar.

Reyes leaves his slacks on, just pushing them down far enough to pull out his cock and balls, letting them rest heavily over his open fly. He moves up Ryder’s torso, until his weight hovers over Ryder’s sternum, knees shoved up into the hollows of his armpits.

Taking his cock in hand, Reyes directs it towards Ryder’s parted lips. Ryder licks along the head, popping just the tip of it in his mouth and sucking down. Craning forward strains his neck. So he reaches out to grab Reyes’ ass, trying to encourage him to fuck his face properly, so Ryder can drop his head back to the mattress and take it.

“How will I know if it's too much?” Reyes asks, dipping his cockhead shallowly past Ryder’s pillowed lips in slow, measured strokes. His hands braced above Ryder’s head, he moves again to bracket his legs on either side of Ryder’s shoulders. From this angle, all Ryder can see is Reyes’ abdomen, his hips, his cock. Everything else is blotted out.

“I'll tap against your thigh, like this,” Ryder drums his fingers frantically on the outside of Reyes’ leg. Fast and hard. “If my mouth isn't full. I'll just tell you to stop.”

“Alright,” Reyes affirms, thrusting again in a short, heady burst. “You want this,” he pushes deeper, until Ryder chokes around his cock, bringing up more saliva than he can swallow, “hard?” Pulling all the way back out, he waits for Ryder to answer.

“Yeah,” Ryder squeezes down hard on Reyes’ ass, the fabric of his loosened trousers bunching up in his hands. “And if you need to stop?”

Reyes eyes narrow, “I'll tell you. I promise.”

“Okay,” Ryder smiles, opening up his mouth as a clear invitation that they should get going.

Reyes starts out slow and even, rocking his cock past Ryder’s teeth. On each stroke he pushes deeper, Ryder opening his mouth wider to try and accommodate, trying to exert gentle pressure as Reyes drives down his throat. There's not a lot that Ryder can do in this position, just laying back and taking Reyes cock. The more Reyes gives; the more Ryder takes, tears clinging at the corners of his eyes.

He chokes around Reyes’ cock as he almost bottoms out, dark, wiry hair brushing against Ryder’s nose. Reyes strokes again, this time holding his cock deep down Ryder’s throat. He waits for Ryder to gag, saliva and phlegm coming up, before pulling back, leaving just the head past Ryder’s lips.

Ryder coughs, letting spit run down the corners of his mouth, soaking his cheeks and clinging there. Reyes coos, “Good boy, you look so good taking my cock,” before thrusting in again.

Humming in appreciation, Ryder cants his hips up, trying to at least rub against the seam of his slacks. He could reach around and palm his cock, through the fabric or peel his pants open. But for now he is content to buck up into the air in frustration, choking around the intrusion down his throat.

What was at first a gentle tide of thrusts becomes stormy, rough, as Reyes pins him down with sharp, staggering punctuations of his hips. Ryder gags, shutting his eyes to keep from crying, as Reyes thrusts again, holding deep until Ryder struggles, his throat convulsing around the intrusion before Reyes pulls out quickly.

Ryder coughs and coughs. Reaching down, Reyes smears Ryder’s saliva over his face, wetting him everywhere. Ryder groans, panting, “Yes, oh, fuck yes,” and grinding his hips fruitlessly.

Reyes sticks three fingers down Ryder’s mouth instead, “You're wet for it.”

Ryder nods frantically, his muscles contracting around Reyes’ fingers. His cock curves up towards his belly, still shiny with Ryder’s spit, deep purple-red at the head, precum leaking from the tip.

“Give it to me, please,” Ryder whines when Reyes pulls his hand back out, dragging wet fingers over the few dry places left on Ryder’s face. “Give me your cock.”

Reyes smiles, crawling forward again and slamming his cock down. This time the strokes are fast, just deep enough to make Ryder work for it, and unrelenting. Like he’s pounding Ryder’s ass instead of his face, his balls striking against Ryder’s chin on each exclamation.

Reyes babbles praise and pet names, pretty boy, good, what a wet mouth. Ryder drinks it all down, his attention pulled between Reyes’ cock and his own, so painfully hard and untouched.

Groaning, Reyes warns, “I'm going to come,” starting to pull back.

Ryder holds Reyes in place, until the first bitter burst of cum spills across his tongue. Letting go, Ryder lets Reyes pull the rest of the way out, coming in short ropes across his face, tugging at his cock to squeeze the remainder out after his orgasm has subsided.

Ryder pants, Reyes still straddling his chest.

Reyes touches his fingers to Ryder’s cheek, slow and gentle, “Good?”

“Good,” Ryder rasps, his throat sore and starting to swell, “oh, fucking good,” he laughs.

“You haven't come,” Reyes reaches backwards, squeezing Ryder’s erection. And he's so keyed up he almost comes right then, like a inexperienced teenager in his pants.

Instead, Ryder groans, shifting around so Reyes lets him sit up, planting his cum and spit covered lips firmly against Reyes’, kissing him with a ferocity that makes Reyes smile, their teeth clicking together.

Ryder hums appreciatively, still drunk on his desire, though the alcohol has long faded. He has Reyes here, straddled across his lap, and the courage that comes with sex lingers, “What if I wanted to…” Ryder palms at Reyes’ ass, pulling at one cheek to spread him open, his slacks hanging low enough that Ryder gets his hand on warm skin. He slots a finger along the seam, brushing it along the outside of Reyes’ hole. “Or are you not that kind of guy?” Ryder asks.

Reyes laughs, “I take it that you are?” He grinds down on Ryder’s lap, in a way that almost certainly signals that he is ‘that kind of guy.’ “I'm very versatile,” he stops himself from saying more. But Ryder can sort of guess what he leaves off. ‘Didn't realize that _you_ were.’

“I'll be good to you,” Ryder promises, letting his fingers drag along Reyes skin. They're dry, so he doesn't try to breach him.

“I'm sure you will be,” Reyes acknowledges. “Now let me see that beautiful cock of yours.”

For this, they actually have to shed their pants. Ryder tosses his in the direction of his laundry pile. He reaches over to the nightstand, pulling out his box and opening the clasps to look for lube.

Reyes sits back, at the edge of Ryder’s bed, waiting for him to turn his attention back. When Ryder does, finally seeing Reyes stripped bare, running his hand over the head of his growing erection, Ryder can't help but be happy. Even if it's only temporary. It's only ever temporary.

Ryder slicks his fingers, telling Reyes to get on his back. He wants to watch his face as he stretches Reyes open. Reyes complies, flopping onto the mattress and letting his knees fall open. He grabs the pillow from behind his head, shoving it under his hips instead to change the angle.

“When was your last Standard Vac?” Ryder asks. He has condoms too, in case.

“When I woke up from cryo, you?”

Ryder responds, “Same. And um, I haven't been with anyone since waking up. You...um obviously,” his confidence drains just a bit. Not enough to make him want to stop. But suddenly Ryder is very aware that while he's...pretty experienced for his age, Reyes has undoubtedly had more lovers. And more recently as well. And Ryder’s just not sure that he can compare.

“You should use the condom,” Reyes says, “we don't know about Standard Vac and Angara yet. And I can't account for second degree exposure.”

“Okay,” Ryder reaches for his box again, flipping open the lid and pulling out a condom. He drops it on the bed for now, next to the bottle of lube.

Ryder holds back one of Reyes’ legs, pushing it up towards his chest to open up access to his hole. The first finger slides in easily, all the way to the hilt.

Reyes shifts his hips a little bit, his eyes wide and open, “Your fingers are so long,”

Ryder can't help but smile. He knows, but it's still nice to hear.

There's a little resistance with the second finger, and a little more when he starts scissoring them open, spreading them wide as he starts dragging out, then collapsing as he pushes in. Reyes starts groaning, little exclamations of “there, right there,” as he tries to keep Ryder’s digits buried inside.

Once he can get three fingers to move, slick and wet, with just a little friction left, Ryder reaches for the condom. Reyes snatches it from his hands, tearing at the foil with his teeth. “Let me,” he offers.

Reyes sits up to roll the condom over Ryder’s cock. While he's still deliriously hard and wanting, the time it's taken to stretch Reyes open has pulled him back from hair-trigger sensitivity. So he should be able to last. At least a little.

“How do you want me?” Reyes asks, his cheeks flushed and cock hard again between his legs.

Ryder puts his back against the headboard, sitting up with his legs out in front of him, “Come over here and ride me?” he asks, hoping Reyes will say yes.

Reyes smiles, crawling across the bed to climb over Ryder’s lap, “Thought you'd never ask.” He kisses Ryder, hard and sharp, while wrapping one hand around his length. Holding Ryder’s cock steady at the base, Reyes sinks down, inch by inch, until the head pops inside. After that, it's easier. Ryder isn't particularly thick. Though he kind of, sort of thinks he has a nice cock. Nice enough to get Reyes, who is definitely, definitely objectively out of his league, to sit on it.

Swallowing, Ryder tries to focus on the task at hand. At the tight, slow heat bearing down on his cock. And fuck, fuck, Reyes’ perfect chest is in front of his face. Ryder wraps his arms around Reyes’ back, pulling him close to lick against salt-slick skin.

Reyes groans, starting to raise his hips. Ryder pulls his knees up, to keep Reyes caged in his lap. With his knees bent, he can thrust up into Reyes as he starts to pull away. Fucking into him as Reyes starts to grind down, they find their rhythm.

Reyes dips his head low enough that they can kiss, and Ryder realizes how filthy he still is. That he must taste of Reyes’ cum and sweat. That he must look a mess. But Reyes is still all too beautiful, perfect, even with his hair out of place, sticking to his forehead, getting in his eyes as it droops.

“You're so big,” Reyes groans, as Ryder thrusts up again. His hands drop to Reyes’ hips, cutting his nails into exposed flesh.

“Mmm, I'm tall,” he offers by way of explanation. That's about as coherently as he can think at the moment, because the tightness of Reyes all around him is consuming. Not the least of which is Reyes pulling at his hair.

There's the slap of skin on skin, the heavy sounds of their ruptured breathing. Ryder is close, so close, heat building in his abdomen, he could enter free-fall at any instant.

Grabbing Reyes around his hips, he flips them both over, pinning Reyes down. He pistons harder now, driving deep and growling at Reyes’ neck, “Touch yourself, I'm going to…”

Reyes leaves one arm wrapped around Ryder’s sweaty shoulders, slotting the other between their bodies to work his cock. Ryder holds him down, fucking in rapid bursts until he's breathless. From the way Reyes groans, he's losing air too, spilling hot between their bodies. And, fuck, fuck, Ryder just wants to come. When Reyes clamps down, his muscles tensing with his orgasm, Ryder can't help but follow.

Now they're both a mess. Okay, they were a mess before, too.

Ryder pulls out slowly, pinching the condom to make sure it doesn't slip. Sticking it in a tissue, he can throw it out later, leaving it on the dresser table.

He falls face first into the mattress next to Reyes, who is still breathing hard. Ryder turns his head to look at the side of Reyes’ face. He almost hates how handsome he is. “Okay?” Ryder asks, looking for confirmation.

“More than,” Reyes says, arching his hand over his forehead. “I hope you know I mean it as a compliment, when I say I wasn't expecting this.”

Ryder smiles, turning his head again to press his nose into the sheets. They'll need to be changed. They're definitely gross. He'll get around to that later. “I wasn't...I don't know. I didn't think you'd say yes?” Ryder admits.

“To getting fucked? Let me assure you, Anthony, I am always amenable to the idea.” There's a smile, bright in his response, “Don't misunderstand, I also wouldn't mind burying myself in you. Having those legs thrown over my shoulders.”

Ryder huffs into his pillow, “Maybe later,” he looks at the time. “We have a couple hours before we leave Kadara.”

Reyes rolls onto his side, throwing an arm around Ryder’s midsection, “Next time,” Reyes promises him, “and I'll get my Standard Vac updated.”

Ryders heartbeat spikes with what that means.

“So I can come inside you,” Reyes slides his fingers down the line of Anthony’s crack, “leave you dripping with it.”

Yeah, it's that. But also the implicit promise that Reyes isn't going to sleep with anyone else while he's away. As bold as Ryder has just been, the question crumbles in his mouth like wood ash. Another thing entirely to make a promise like that. One that's not just fucking. Just release.

“SAM?”

“Pathfinder.”

“Set an alarm for an hour, okay?” They can get a nap in, before Reyes has to get off the ship.

“Yes, Pathfinder.”

_Would you like to be informed when he leaves?_

_**I’ll walk him out, after we nap.** _

SAM doesn't respond.

When Ryder wakes, Reyes is already gone.


	13. It takes many acts to reach the end

Reyes spends the morning pouring over reports.

About one third are sent directly to him, Reyes Vidal, Shena, informant and smuggler and all around nefarious character. Some of the reports are from contacts, some of them are forwarded from Keema. Some of them are from relative strangers, trying to win his favor. He's an influential man on Kadara, after all.

Another segment, about half, are scrapes from bugs, planted across the port, a dozen or so in outlying habitats. While he was not the one who placed the devices originally, he benefits from their presence.

An Asari computer scientist designed the system that he uses to intercept the transmissions. He copied her files while he transported her from the Port to her base, out on the edges of the habitable zone. She must know he copied her work. She must not care.

The remaining fraction are messages addressed to the Charlatan. Thrown out onto the net with no specific destination, adrift in a sea of information. But they call out to him by name, hoping that he will show himself, that he will respond. He reads, of course, but never answers.

Most people, who think that the Charlatan can help them, have no fucking idea who he is. They think him benevolent, of an upstanding moral character, a Robin Hood for the new age. They are so, very, wrong.

It’s past lunch hour when Keema hails him.

“I bought too much food,” she says. He can hear her fingers rattling against the countertop in her apartment.

“And?”

“You need to come eat it.”

Reyes leans back against the sofa, his datapad perched on his knees, “You mother me too much.”

“Fuck that,” Keema barks back, “See if I ever invite you over again.” She drops something. Reyes can hear it crash against the floor. “Shit. We have to talk anyway. Zero.”

She’s swept her apartment for bugs, then. Reyes sighs, letting her know he’ll be over in twenty minutes. They do have business to attend.

\--

They sprawl out across Keema’s couch, empty cartons of Milky Way style take-away across the table, next to their datapads and maps that Keema has had copied from the previous administration.

She puts her feet up on the couch, brushing against the outside of Reyes’ leg as they work. Their plan is almost ready. They just need to hire the shooter. Reyes doesn’t want it to be anyone they’ve worked with before. Other than Keema, he will always trust strangers over friends. Strangers kept quiet with credits. Strangers can disappear. Friends always want to prove they’re the special one. The one that the Charlatan trusted to show his face. That won’t do.

“There’s always the Roekaar,” Keema suggests, trying to bury her feet under Reyes’ ass. She squeezes just her toes under him. “Or Roekaar rejects.”

Reyes dismisses the idea, “I don’t plan on getting caught. But if I do, I can’t have ties to the Roekaar. Evfra would go down for it.”

“Evfra is a big boy. He may not have known the extent of your operations when he hired you. And he may not know them now. But you’re a fool to think he doesn’t have safeguards in place. One step out of line, and he’ll ghost your involvement with the Resistance.”

Reyes shifts his hips, trying to get comfortable with Keema’s lumpy feet under him. “And what about you?” he asks, “What safeguards have you taken?”

“Enough,” she smiles. “So we’re only looking at Milky Way snipers, then?” she exchanges one datapad for another. “You have a much easier time picking lovers. Then again, I suppose sex is temporary. An assassination is forever.”

She’s trying to goad him and he knows it. Wringing information about Anthony out of him through clever tactics. “Nothing is forever, my dear,” he assures her. Batting at her shin, he tries to get her to move her feet. Their position has become uncomfortable.

“If we’re doing this at the location you mentioned, our shooter doesn’t have to be accurate at long range,” Keema says. She turns the datapad towards Reyes, “how about him? Exile, killed three during the revolts. At least three. But his record with the Alliance wasn’t exceptional in any way. Trained as a sniper, but decisively middle of the road.”

Reyes takes the pad from her, scanning the profile once, then going over it again in closer detail. It’s a start, “On Kadara already?” he asks, but when he reaches the end of the profile, he sees the flag that their sniper hasn’t been seen in two weeks. “Maybe dead already.”

“Could still try hailing him. What’s the risk? Relatively little to see if he’s alive.” She tries to shove her feet back under him. Reyes pushes at her toes before wrapping his hand around them, trying to keep them warm, since that’s what she’s actually after.

Reyes responds, “True. Might as well see.” He reaches back towards the table, grabbing a tablet that he knows has the current Nexus cryo records, at least up until this morning. He finds their sniper. Woken up for security detail. Only one connection that came with him, an older sister, still asleep. Her record has been flagged as “DELAYED: INDEFINITE.” Just a colonist, with a brother who turned on Nexus leadership. Might be years before she wakes up.

Reyes sends a message, and the profile, to one of the Charlatan’s comm specialists. They’ll see what happens.

\--

There’s blood in Ryder’s ears. In his toes too. Everywhere technically. That’s how the circulatory system works, right? But he can feel it pounding in his skull like he rarely has before. They’ve been running across Meridian, trying to push the Kett out. He can hear them screaming, dying.

He knows they are awful, brutish things. They take the Angara, make them into Kett. They’ve taken Drack’s scouts, turned them into monsters. Heavy plates, vicious, open mouths. They scream and scream, even when they are not dying.

Ryder asks Drack how many scouts he lost. Drack shakes his head.

There will be more. Maybe not here. Maybe not today. But there will be more.

The Kett are their enemy. But they’re not mindless. The Archon wants to grind Ryder down, until he’s dust. And he’ll do it through sheer numbers if he has to. Throwing foot soldiers at the problem. But they scream. They scream like any other species.

Before Andromeda, Ryder never killed anyone.

He’s not his father.

Jaal is screaming too.

Jaal doesn’t understand. It’s too much. The Angara were made here, from blueprints. They were shaped and refined. Constructed by the Remnant. For what end?

Ryder crouches down low, wrapping his arms around his knees.

Distantly, he knows Kosta is hugging Jaal. Telling him it’s okay. It’s okay to be this angry, this sad, at any intensity Jaal needs. It’s fine. Ryder also knows he should be the one assuring Jaal they’ll get through this. They’ll look for answers. But Ryder can’t do that. So he’s glad Kosta can.

They drag themselves up. They keep moving. Because Meridian is the key to everything. Running, fighting, surviving. One day, Ryder hopes, they'll be able to do more than just survive. But that's not today.

He just has to get through today.

It's too hot inside his helmet. He feels sick.

_Pathfinder, I can help._

_**Please.** _

SAM makes the nausea go away. Soothes the burn down Ryder’s throat, so he's not about to vomit inside his helmet. SAM slows his blood pressure, so he doesn't feel like he's about to faint. SAM takes away all the symptoms telling Ryder’s body that something is very, very wrong.

He doesn't have the time to fix it now. So SAM makes the evidence disappear.

Ryder presses his hand against the Remnant console, waiting for it to react. Static fills his head.

_I'll filter._

And with that his head is quiet.

He doesn't really feel anything anymore.

Once the Kett are down, and Meridian is silent, they learn that this isn't really Meridian at all.

Ryder watches, without a word, as the hologram shows him the “real” Meridian departing, into the endless sea of stars.

They were never really close, after all.

\--

Ryder sits down in front of his terminal on the Tempest, sorting through his mail. There are messages from Eos, Havarl, Kadara, the Nexus. He opens them, so they’ll be marked as read, but doesn't do more than skim the subject line.

None of it is important.

Looking at the senders, he realizes one of the messages is from Avitus Rix. He opens that message again, actually reading through its contents.

Ryder,

I've started receiving coordinates through my implant. I think it's an SOS. I think it's from Macen. If this is the Natanus, I'll need your help. Reeka is still recovering from her injuries. And this can't wait.

Avitus Rix

Attached are the coordinates. Ryder sends them to Jath, with a short message of, “Head out.” Responding back to Rix, he asks how long it will take Rix to reach the location.

Within five minutes, Rix responds: it won't be long. He's had a transport on reserve since getting the signal. While he may not be a Pathfinder, he's of a high enough rank within the Initiative to pull the strings he needs.

\--

The Natanus is fizzing, dark, with the gravity turned down. Rix meets Ryder just inside the airlock, offering his hand, “Glad you could make it. The Ark is in poor condition. It's a wonder there's any gravity at all.”

Ryder flips on his magboots, anchoring him to the floor for the time being. Zap floats above his head, internal components whirring with the ambient noise of the ship.

Rix looks up at Zap in surprise, “Should I even ask?”

"One of my team designed it,” reaching up, he skims his gloved hand along Zap’s casing, “pretty handy in a firefight.”

Ryder hasn't brought any of his squad aboard. Rix was a Spectre, after all. The Council’s finest operatives. The two of them will go in quick, quiet, and alone. If they need backup, it's ready aboard the Tempest. But they don't know what to expect.

“SAM, can we give Rix access? Like we did for the Salarian Pathfinder? He has an implant,” they should use all the advantages they've been afforded. Chief among those is SAM.

Rix shakes his head, “No, no that won't be necessary,” he pulls his assault rifle from his back. “I'm still getting signals through the implant. I think Macen is using it, somehow...through our SAM. Let's not rock the boat.”

_Pathfinder, the decision is yours._

Ryder recoils at the suggestion.

**_He said no._ **

“Let's get moving, then. You should probably take point,” Ryder suggests.

Rix agrees, moving towards the first sealed door.

They don't encounter any hostiles in the next room over, or the next. SAM instructs Ryder on how to divert the power, funneling them towards the Natanus’ SAM node. The first terminal they find with any record of what happened here is partial, corrupt. Just a sound recording of the Ark’s captain, telling her subordinates to find Macen.

The gravity doesn't come back. Neither do the lights. The Natanus is a husk, a corpse. Ryder thinks maybe it's choking him too. Rix starts making noise, subharmonics he probably doesn't realize he’s emitting as he breathes.

Almost all the consoles are dead, but they find another one that functions. This one with Barro’s voice, asking for SAM. The audio cuts out.

“Spirits,” Rix curses.

“The video is gone.”

“And the audio?” Rix places his hand flat against the console. It barely brightens at the contact. Still, it's the most luminous thing in the room.

“Repairing now, one moment, please” SAM assures them.

Ryder mumbles under his breath, “We need to remain objective.” He stares at his hand, next to Rix’s on the panel. SAM needs to finish.

“I've never been objective when it comes to Macen,” Rix snickers, shaking his head.

His voice shakes too.

Ryder feels dizzy, before SAM stops him.

“Try,” he pulls his hand back.

SAM finishes, “Playing back audio now.”

Barro’s voice resumes, “SAM, how far to Avi’s pod?”

Ryder’s SAM can't act fast enough. Ryder coughs inside his helmet, trying to control his stomach.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

_Pathfinder._

Ryder squeezes his eyes shut.

“300 meters,” Barro’s SAM sounds so different.

Barro huffs a bitter laugh, “An easy stroll.” A pause and crash, “Damnit,” there's that laugh again, “maybe not so easy.”

Rix’s voice is low, quiet. But Ryder can feel his distress acutely. It makes him ill. “Where is the rest of it?”

“That is all that I could recover.”

Ryder swallows, “We should keep moving….the SAM node.”

Ryder’s lungs feel full of stones. Wearing down against each other, leaving dust inside his airways. Rix walks at his side, rifle over his back, hands wrung together.

He knows. He must know. They only need confirmation.

Ryder doesn't know. He doesn't know if he should follow Rix into the SAM node, once the door is open. His hand stays on the console as he breathes.

_Pathfinder. He is waiting for you._

_He does not want to be alone._

Hissing through his teeth, Ryder pushes away from the panel. He clenches his hand into a fist, walking back to Rix.

Rix crosses the threshold first, Ryder on his heels. He can't make his hand lax, it stays curled tight.

The SAM flickers blue in the darkness, shifting, curling. Beautiful in its development. Even now, it is changing, learning. It has been learning all along. Waiting for Rix to come.

Rix takes off his helmet. Ryder leaves his on.

This is too intimate.

_He is afraid._

“SAM,” Rix steels his voice, “where is the Pathfinder? Where is Macen?”

The SAM flickers, bulges, contracts. It speaks in a voice that is not its own. Garbled and obscene.

“Avi, Avi, Avi, commences, stars.”

Avi.

“He's the only one who calls me that,” Rix stares into the SAM, stepping closer, his hand coming away from his body. He stops himself before he reaches out, to a body that isn't there.

“My counterpart is suffering from severe trauma. If I partition the damage, it may be able to speak with us,” SAM informs them.

“Do it,” Rix bites.

_**Do it.** _

They wait in silence while SAM works. It does not take long.

“Welcome home, Avitus Rix.”

“Macen sent me coordinates to this location. I have to find him,” Rix argues.

Ryder hears Rix’s words from the bottom of a shallow sea. The tones crashing up against the stones he's had to swallow. They lose their edges. But he knows what is happening.

“I sent the coordinates,” the SAM corrects.

“Where is Macen?”

“Gone.”

Barro’s final message plays, “Avi, it’s beautiful. Even the stars are brighter. Avi, Avi, you have to go on. For the both of us.”

SAM’s transfer never completed. That is why they are here now. So Rix can receive Barro’s parting gift.

“The Turians need a Pathfinder,” Ryder says.

Rix stutters, “I can't.”

And Ryder wants to scream. Because Rix has a choice. A choice he was never offered. He's had more. He's had Macen Barro. He's had someone who loved him so much, so deeply, that they crossed dark space together. Someone who exchanged his life for Rix’s

It's a string of selfish, petty thoughts. But Ryder cannot help it. But he can stop from crying out.

“Your people need you, Rix,” though his voice is quiet, Ryder’s throat is sore. “They need a leader.”

“I never thought I'd get the job,” Rix turns to stare into Barro’s SAM. His SAM. “My entire career I've worked alone. I don't know how to lead people. I don't want to lead people.”

Ryder feels the stones in his mouth again. They force him to speak, “Rix…” Ryder breathes. He doesn't have the tact for this, “You organized your people on Havarl, kept them safe. You found the Turian Ark, when no one else could. You've already been a leader. You're already Pathfinder. This is….a technicality.”

“I...I don't want to let him down,” Rix takes a step closer to the node.

Ryder twists his hands together, “Trust me, when I say...I...know what you're feeling,” his voice wavers, but his eyes are dry. SAM sees to that. He laughs, near hysterical, “No, I fucking don't. But I felt a lot of shit too. I fucking….my father died because of me. To save me. But I hated him. I hated him until the end. And I hate him still. Because he forced this on me. And I hate myself. Because I'm going to force this on you.” He's shaking all over, “You have to take it, Rix. Maybe you fail. But you have to fight.”

Rix tilts his head to one side, “You're right. I can't be worse than you. That speech was terrible.” He smiles and Ryder laughs, a nervous, reedy sound. “But you're good at this, Ryder. You've learned to be good at this. And I'll learn too.”

They wait while SAM transfers.


	14. Your Interludes are for Apologies

“I heard the Tempest docked last night,” Keema says, over their open channel.

Reyes heard that too.

“What of it?”

“Your Pathfinder hasn’t been by to see you?”

Reyes scowls, dropping his data tablet onto his stomach. His head is propped up on the couch armrest, knees bent and socked feet on the cushion. Today is supposed to be the day.

“No.”

“Did you hail him?”

“No.”

Reyes can practically hear Keema roll her eyes.

“Did you consider for a moment that he thinks the worst? You did slip out on him after tapping that.”

“We don’t have time, Keema.”

Silence on the other end. Reyes’ Omni beeps, on his private text channel.

_you know he went to see her right_

Reyes groans, but doesn’t answer. Keema knows better than that. Such a detail wouldn’t have slipped past him.

_he could ruin everything we’ve worked for_

“I know,” Reyes admits out loud.

On the other end of the voice line, Keema groans.

\--

The sniper is in position. Reyes is not.

He has a tracker in the Nomad, so he’ll know when Sloane and Anthony arrive. For now, he sits atop an outcropping of rock, waiting as the seconds tick down. His knees pulled to his chest, he keeps his eyes on the cavern opening, just in case something goes wrong. He’s ready. There’s a ladder back behind the sniper, leading up to another exit, carved into the rock. In case he has to run. But the entrance to the cave is wide enough too, for him to run through, to the transport waiting on his command.

Sloane is good in close combat, so he’d be better off running towards Anthony’s side. But maybe not. Maybe SAM would make it impossible to slip by Anthony, if he tries to stop Reyes. Sloane’s side might still be the better choice, if he has to run.

Anthony tends to walk on the right side of his companions. Though not exclusively. Sloane is ambidextrous. Anthony is left-handed, but shoots right-handed. He doesn’t wear his helmet, even when he knows he should. Sometimes, he talks to SAM. Sometimes, he ignores SAM. He flinches when SAM talks to him. Sloane’s right knee gives her problems. But when she’s adrenaline-high, she barely registers the old injury. She doesn’t hesitate. Anthony hesitates a lot.

His Omni beeps. They’re here.

Reyes puts his boots down on the ledge just below, standing and brushing the dust off his armor. Waiting in the shadows, he listens for footsteps. Anthony takes longer strides. Sloane is faster, heavier. They’ve come alone, just the two of them. Reyes clenches his fists tight, steadies his voice, “You look like you’re waiting for someone.” His words echo against the rock.

Anthony flinches, taking a step back. Reyes can’t afford to retreat. There’s a voice in his head, _run, run, run._ But there’s a louder cry, _survive_. Sometimes running and surviving are the same. Sometimes, they pull Reyes in opposite directions.

“Reyes…” Anthony’s eyes stay fixed forward as Reyes steps from the darkness. The light filtering in from the holes in the cave ceiling turn Anthony’s skin copper. His eyes look so brown. Wide and warm. It’s a trick of the light.

This is where it ends.

Sloane speaks, “We’re here for the Charlatan, not some third rate smuggler.”

Anthony’s mouth opens, he takes another step, moving out of the light. His eyes dim to black. His shoulders tighten, “You’re the Charlatan.” It’s an accusation.

“Surprise,” Reyes doesn’t recognize his own voice.

Reaching up, Anthony grabs at his own hair, fingers clamping down hard. His mouth twists, “You lied to me. You’ve lied to me all along,” his voice cracks.

“Shit,” Sloane turns to Anthony, perhaps realizing the mistake that she’s made. Half Kadara Port must have seen Reyes and Anthony together. They other half know by rumor. One of Sloane’s own operatives saw them in the supply closet. People saw them drinking together later that evening, they saw Reyes board the Tempest, sneak out the next morning.

“No, SAM, no….” Anthony shakes his head.

“Now he’s fucking hearing voices,” Sloane says. “Fucking…”

It’s not worth explaining SAM to her. Reyes barely understands himself. Only that sometimes, Reyes can hear the AI, other times, he can’t. But Anthony responds either way.

Reyes has excuses, ready on his tongue. But they dissolve before he can spit them out. Leaving acid on his breath, “Yes, I lied.”

Sloane shakes her head, clearly through with Anthony, “You said you wanted to settle things, how?”

Having to tear his eyes away, Reyes almost misses how Anthony drops to the floor, crouching low but still looking out, back at Reyes. His hand is still in his hair. Breathing deeply, Anthony starts pushing himself back up. As sudden and quiet as his collapse has been, he’s already building himself back up.

Reyes hops down from the ledge he’d scaled, coming to stand on level ground with Sloane. Only, they’ll never be equals. It’s not possible. One of them will win. And the other one will lose.

“A duel, here and now. You and me. The winner takes Kadara Port.”

If he fails here, and lives. He’ll try again. If he succeeds, it’s only a matter of time until someone else tries to steal this all away.

He’s not going to be afraid.

“Reyes,” Anthony whispers. It's so loud in the quiet of the cave.

He can’t look at Anthony again.

“Two people shooting each other is better than a lot of people shooting each other,” he’s planned out every word to make her agree.

Sloane looks down, no doubt weighing her options, “I’ll take those terms.”

With that, Reyes wins.

Having nothing more to say, Sloane steps forward, beginning the duel in earnest. Reyes has planned out every step she is likely to take. Poured over video of her stride, her hand positioning, how she breathes before she fires. Hacked from the security cams across the planet, embedded in her own base, archival footage from the Nexus. He knows, and his sniper knows, just when to pull the trigger.

Anthony, beautiful Anthony waits in silence. He breathes too loudly. He flinches. SAM. SAM has told him something. Reyes cannot look away from Sloane. Cannot reveal too much.

“No,” Anthony’s protest is too quiet, and too late. Eaten up by the silenced sniper round. It’s never truly silent. Just quiet. Still, it’s louder than Sloane’s body hitting the ground, soft. Her weakened cry. It’s not a word. She’s too proud to beg for help. Even in this moment. Reyes is certain he would beg.

Reyes waits until her body settles, “Bang.”

“No.”

He still can’t look, “Make sure she is dead, then get her out of here,” he hesitates, “bury her. We take the Port tonight.”

His select crew moves in, gathering up Sloane’s body. Blood seeps from the wound. He half expects her to breathe again, to shoot him back. But that’s impossible. She’s dead.

And Anthony is gone.

Reyes leaves the cleanup to his people, stepping out of the cave and into the light. He sends off a message to Keema, who will coordinate everything at the Port. She sends back, _how are you doing?_

He doesn't reply, which should be enough of an answer.

The Nomad is still there, at the foot of the hill. Anthony could not have gotten far. Part of Reyes believes, once he crosses the threshold, into the open air, that Anthony will shoot him down.

Burning is such an awful way to go.

But he takes one step, two, and the fire never comes. Reyes walks over to the Nomad, calling Anthony’s name, with no response. Tapping at the door, the Nomad opens for him.

Anthony sits alone in the back seat, eyes averted, avoiding Reyes’ gaze.

“In or out, Vidal,” he orders.

Reyes slips into the Nomad, knowing this may spell his end. His chest tightens, heart rate speeding up. The doors close behind him, locking him inside the ATV. It's dark, the front windshield shaded to filter out the light.

Anthony slides over, until he's against the opposite door, giving Reyes more space to sit. Still, there's no escape. Anthony controls the doors.

“I know,” Anthony says aloud. Reyes knows he's speaking to SAM. Instead of looking at Reyes, Anthony stares at the back of the driver’s seat. Reaching out with both hands, he wraps them around the headrest. His gloves are off, but the Incinerate wiring pokes out from his wrist. “Why?” his voice is thin and full of water. Ready to burst, “You didn't trust me.” He blinks several times. Even in the dimness of the cab, Reyes can see the press of his dark eyelashes.

“I liked the way you looked at me,” Reyes admits. “I was afraid that would change,” he rests his forehead in his hands, the crown of his head brushing against the back of the passenger seat. He laughs, “Now you won't even look at me.”

“You got what you wanted, didn't you?” Anthony asks.

“I want peace,” Reyes still can't look. He breathes deep, “Sloane’s methods would have led to war. We don have the population to survive that.”

“Don't lie to me now, there's no reason,” Anthony shifts his weight against the seat.

Reyes finally manages to look at Anthony again, slumped across the backseat, knees spread and hands still Clutched around the seat in front of him.

Reyes shakes his head, “This is how I become someone.”

“Someone I don't know…”

He has to look away, “I suppose so.”

“I'm an idiot,” Anthony groans. Sharply, he punches the back of the driver’s seat, the sound escaping from his mouth a wail. “You lied to me.”

“Not about everything. You know who I really am,” his arguments burn his mouth. Searing off the skin. “I didn't lie about...us.”

Anthony grabs the headrest again, pulling it back towards him. It doesn't move. The Nomad is too sturdy for that. “I still want you.”

It's tired. And it's broken. And Reyes wishes, unflinchingly that he were the man Anthony needs. He wants to be that man. Desperately. The one who is kinder, more noble, more just, than he actually is. But it's smoke and mirrors. A pretty illusion. Reyes can't be that person. He can only be himself.

“You have terrible taste in men,” Reyes offers.

Anthony moves suddenly and without grace, stretching across the backseat to crowd into Reyes’ space. He shoves at Reyes’ shoulders, pushing him against the door, his whole body blanketing the seat beneath him, as he pushes his weight onto Reyes. There's desperation between their lips. Heavy and cloyingly sweet. Every time Reyes tries to swallow, it feels like suffocating.

Anthony whines into his mouth, hands clutching at Reyes’ armor. There isn't enough room to maneuver. Reyes tries to move his leg, so his torso isn't quite so twisted, but there’s no where to put it. Anthony grabs him again, this time dragging Reyes forward while he leans back, slotting his leg between Reyes and the back of the seat. He pulls Reyes on top of him, legs splayed, one against the backrest, and one foot on the floor. His knees are bent, too long to fit quite straight.

Reyes shifts control, biting at Anthony’s lips before stroking into smoother, plusher kisses. Heat rising between their bodies. It's not enough space or skin, but Reyes grinds down until Anthony groans, bucking his hips up in rapid circles. Anthony paws at the front of Reyes’ armor, struggling to find the clasp. Reyes helps him, unbuckling the latch and starting on the zipper, before Anthony takes over with long, trembling fingers. That doesn't solve the problem of the Nomad being too cramped.

“Anthony, Anthony,” Reyes doesn't try to make an argument, hissing as Anthony opens his armor enough to stick his hands inside, rucking up his undershirt and taking his blunt nails across Reyes’ chest.

“I love how you say my name,” Anthony whines, “no one says my name like that.”

Reyes says it again, into the shell of Anthony’s ear, “Anthony.”

One of Anthony’s hands slips lower, cupping over Reyes’ erection, “Too many layers, fuck.” Anthony throws his head back against the door, showing Reyes his throat. “Wanna touch you.”

They both scramble with their armor, tossing most of it into the front seat. Anthony bumps his head against the ceiling twice, hissing both times. Reyes shoves down his boxers, and Anthony doesn't falter, wrapping his hand around Reyes’ cock.

“I still,” Anthony groans, “want your cock in me.”

“I updated my Standard Vac,” Reyes tells him.

“Fuck, okay, fuck,” Anthony twists around again, moving Reyes aside so he can reach into the front seat for his armor. He pulls out a packet of medigel. That will...technically work.

Ripping open the packet with his teeth, Anthony smears the gel over his fingers. He scoots back towards the door, propping himself up and spreading his legs. The side of his knee bumps into the seat in front of him, but he readjusts until he can slide the first finger into his hole.

Reyes watches with rapt attention as Anthony fingers himself open, hair sticking across his forehead as he sweats. First one finger, then quickly a second. He works with practiced efficiency, stretching himself. Though the light is low, Reyes feels as if he sees everything, amplified by the electricity in the cab. Anthony’s long fingers disappear, then pull back out, still wet. In again, three this time.

“Okay, okay,” Anthony dumps the remainder of the packet into his palm, reaching out and smearing it over Reyes’ cock. It should be just enough. He gives Reyes two firm strokes before gasping, “Hurry, hurry, want it, please.”

Anthony turns over, keeping one knee on the floor and the other on the seat. He braces his left arm against the door, arching his back to keep his hips low. With his other hand, he reaches around, spreading himself for Reyes. “I'm ready,” he pants, “I'm ready.”

Reyes blankets himself over Anthony’s back, holding his cock steady as he pushes in. The resistance is minimal, just a tight pressure until the head pops inside. From there, Reyes slides in smoothly. Anthony groaning and tightening around him as Reyes bottoms out. He's so fucking tight around Reyes’ shaft. Warm, alive. Anthony pushes his hips back, pulling away his hand so he can use both to brace himself.

There's little room to maneuver in the cab. As much as they try to bend low, Reyes comes close to hitting his head, if he's not careful. The compact space forces him to stay close to Anthony, his chest flush to Anthony’s back, short, shallow thrusts of his hips. He barely pulls out as he moves. But Anthony whines and babbles, beautiful strings of incoherent pleasure, “Yes, good, please, yes, there, please.” Their skin sticks and pulls.

Reaching forward, Reyes wraps his hand around Anthony’s throat, barely applying pressure at all. Anthony shudders in response, achingly tight around Reyes’ cock as he comes. Reyes’ hand is slick with sweat. The Nomad smells of sex.

“I'm going to come inside you,” Reyes warns, so close now to the edge.

“Yes, please, Anthony sounds broken, exhausted. His fingers are curled against the door.

Reyes comes, biting into the back of Anthony’s neck. He wraps his arms around Anthony’s chest, as if they could both fall through the floor of the Nomad at any moment. Reyes pants, trying to catch his breath. Anthony puts his hand over Reyes’, still planted to his chest. Anthony’s heart rate slows alarmingly quickly.

“Reyes.”

He kisses over Anthony's neck, where the indentations of his teeth are visible.

They rearrange again, so they're both sitting up. Anthony asks Reyes if he can find his boxers. The request is so painfully mundane that Reyes nearly shatters. They'll never have this. Not really.

“I can drive you back to Port,” Anthony offers, still sitting in the back seat in his boxers and nothing else. Reyes finds his shirt, but not his underwear. “Unless your people are waiting for you...with, fuck, Sloane…”

“I should go with them,” Reyes concedes. “I have a transport waiting.”

“Okay,” Anthony opens the doors, even though neither of them are really dressed. Sunlight fills the Nomad.

Reyes can't help but ask, “When do you leave Kadara?”

“Soon,” is the only answer Anthony provides.


	15. Something is Wrong, But Disaster Lingers

“They're talking about you,” Nyx crouches low in front of an open crate, sifting through the contents before she deems it fit to load onto the Tempest.

Ryder stands behind her, his hair tucked behind his ears, hood up over his head and hands shoved in his front pocket. His jeans are frayed around the cuffs, beyond repair. If they were back in the Milky Way, he would just toss them out. But that's not an option anymore.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice raspy from disuse. He hasn't spoken to anyone since yesterday.

Nyx doesn't bother to turn around, still counting out her haul. “You know what they're calling you?”

“No?”

 _Queen of Kadara,_ SAM supplies.

“The Queen of Kadara,” she flourishes with her hand.

Ryder twists his mouth, “Don't care.”

“Didn't say you had to care.” Finished with her inspection, Nyx closes the lid and stands up. “You should watch yourself, though. He has enemies. And you do well enough finding plenty of those for yourself.” She shakes her head, “And he's not a man you should trust.”

“I don't,” Ryder admits, raking his foot against the perforated floor of the dock. The rubber sole catches where the metal is still sharp. It’ll take years to smooth out. “I don't trust him.”

“Good,” Nyx knows better than to touch him, instead crossing her arms over her chest. “Where are you headed now?”

He should get back on the Tempest, put them on route to the Nexus. There's a meeting with the other Pathfinders. Anwar has been communicating with Pathfinder Raeka about possible ways to track Meridian’s trajectory. But they need to finalize the details of the probes.

Tomorrow, they can leave tomorrow.

_Nyx is waiting for you to respond._

“None of your business,” he winces. That's definitely not the right answer, but when he turns and walks towards the elevator, Nyx doesn't try to stop him.

\--

No one has actually seen Vidal since he left the slums yesterday morning. But somehow, they all know he killed Sloane. “The Collective has moved in,” they say. “The Charlatan hired Vidal to kill her.”

Ryder feels sick to his stomach, acid churning, burning at the base of his throat.

Pulling at his hood, Ryder holds no illusions about keeping who he is a secret. He can't go anywhere without people knowing. That's as distressing as anything else. His anonymity has been shattered. He crosses the slums in long strides, taking the stairs two at a time to the second floor of the bar.

Inside, the crowd is sparse, but it's still early in the day. He doesn't look at anyone, heading straight for Vidal’s suite.

Ryder presses his Omni to the lock, _**Hack,**_ he orders SAM. The Omni whirls as SAM works, breaking through the encryption, layer by layer. No one tries to stop him. Either they don't care, or they don't want to care. Ryder is the Queen of Kadara, after all. He should be able to go where he likes.

SAM finishes, and as the door slides open. Ryder slips inside. He nearly runs back out again, when he sees Vidal laying on the couch, his feet up on the backrest and his data tablet in his lap. When he takes a step back, Ryder’s back hits the closed door.

“I knew it could only be you,” Vidal says, setting the tablet aside. He covers his mouth with both his hands and huffs, “Couldn't be anyone else.”

“I didn't think you'd be here,” Ryder admits. “No one has seen you.”

“I slipped back in last night. Locked the doors. Keema has everything under control,” he explains. He pushes himself up to sitting, instead of laying down. “I'll reappear when I'm ready.”

Ryder shakes his head, “But you wanted control of the Port,” he doesn't understand.

“And now, I have it. Or, rather, the Charlatan does.”

“You're the Charlatan,” Ryder says, the title catching between his teeth.

_**You told me.** _

_He was not lying, when he identified himself as such. Reyes Vidal is the Charlatan._

“The Charlatan is an idea. I am just the man behind that idea,” Vidal stands up, crossing the room to where Ryder stays rooted. Part of him still thinks the best course of action is to run.

_Why lie to me?_

SAM starts repeating the script that Ryder has repeated to himself, over and over since yesterday. All the questions clogging up his brain. The accusations that boiled beneath his skin.

“Why lie to me?”

“I told you,” Vidal reaches out, but stops short of touching Ryder. “I...didn't want things to change between us,” his hand hangs empty in the space between them.

Ryder sucks air between his teeth, “What did you think would happen? Were you...just going to lie to me forever?” He still hasn't taken his hood down. Reaching up, he grabs onto one of the cords, tugging at it.

_Or was it that you never thought we’d get this far?_

“Or was it that you never thought we’d get this far?” SAM stops him from crying, but there is only so much it can do about the water in Ryder’s voice.

Vidal tilts his head to one side.

He's dressed casually, more so than Ryder has ever seen. In soft track pants and a worn shirt. Socks, but no shoes. His hair fluffs up more, without product to hold it in place. Even when they've been sticky-wet with the heat of sex and sweat, Vidal has always looked stunningly put together. Now he looks open, raw. Under the crew neck of Vidal’s shirt, Ryder can see the curl of his chest hair, just where it starts.

“I thought I could keep you from finding out, yes,” Vidal admits, “I didn't want this to contaminate you.” He drops his hands to Ryder’s hips, curling his fingers around. Ryder reaches, laying his palms flat to Vidal’s chest. Under the thin cotton of his shirt, his skin is warm.

“Everyone knows. Everyone knows what you did. And they know we’re…”

_Lovers._

“They know we fucked,” Ryder says.

Vidal’s hand tightens sharply. “They think Keema and I work for the Charlatan. She will manage affairs in the Port. I am simply member of the Collective.”

“I don't care what they think,” Ryder lies. He does care. Even if he may want not to, “But you couldn't tell me the truth.”

“I can see it,” Vidal takes one hand to Ryder’s cheek, cradling his face softly. His thumb brushes next to Ryder’s eye, over delicate skin. “How you hate me now.” When he smiles, it doesn't reach the soft wrinkles, only just starting to form at the corners of Vidal’s eyes.

“I don't,” Ryder whispers, “but I should.”

Ryder grabs onto Vidal’s shirt, trying to pull it up and over his head. This is easier than talking, than trying to negotiate a satisfying forgiveness, that will only leave Ryder drained and brittle. Vidal tilts his head, capturing Ryder’s lips, easing out the frantic pace Ryder has set.

If Ryder fucks him long enough, hard enough, frequently enough, maybe he’ll forget what Vidal has done.

They end up sprawled across the couch. Vidal shirtless, his erection tenting the front of his track pants and he rucks up Ryder’s hoodie. Leaning over, he bites at Ryder’s nipples until they're hard and raw. He opens the front of Ryder’s jeans, palming at his erection, smearing precum down the shaft.

Ryder whines, high in his throat, clawing for release.

Vidal straddles his legs, curling forward to take Ryder’s cock into his mouth. And it's good. So fucking good, wet and hot and deep. The head of Ryder’s cock pressing into the back of Vidal’s throat. He gags around it, before pushing further, until his nose dips against Ryder’s pubic bone.

“Fuck, fuck,” Ryder tosses his head back, trying to keep his hips still. Don't thrust, don't thrust. He curls his hands into fists. Don't touch. Don't touch.

Vidal pulls off, his eyes wide and lips moist and full. He slides back up Ryder’s body, skimming his fingers over exposed skin.

_Vidal is speaking to you._

_**What is he saying?** _

_He is concerned for your well-being. You became unresponsive._

_**What should I say?** _

_Do you wish to continue with the sex act?_

“Do you wish-” Ryder catches himself in his mistake. Oh fuck.

“Anthony?” Vidal frowns. He starts tugging Ryder’s hoodie back down to cover his chest.

“I'm okay,” Ryder grabs Vidal’s wrist, trying to stop him, “It was good. I just zoned out for a second.”

Vidal leans over, pressing a kiss to Ryder’s jaw, “I don't think we should.”

“I want to,” Ryder rasps. “It felt really good.”

Vidal smiles, shaking his head, “You may not hate me. But you do not trust me either. That is probably...safe. For the best.” He takes Ryder’s hand in his, turning it, to kiss the back.

Ryder props himself up on his elbows, his weight sinking them deep into the couch cushions. “You don't trust me either,” he frowns.

“I do,” Vidal insists. “I...care for you a great deal, Anthony.”

Ryder tucks himself back into his pants, pulling up his zipper. Sitting, he rests his face in his hands. He doesn't know how to fix this. He only knows how to run away. Last time...he ran six centuries into the future, an entire galaxy away. He laughs into his palms. Running out of places in the universe to escape.

_He is sincere._

“I should go,” Ryder tugs at his shoulder.

Vidal reaches for him, taking his hand and and holding tight. He threads his fingers through Ryder’s binding them together. “I'm sorry. I don't deserve your forgiveness. But know that my intentions--I had your best interests in mind.”

Ryder squeezes back, leaning over to kiss Vidal on the cheek, then achingly brief on the lips. He pulls away, his hands already starting to shake. He stands to leave, heading towards the door. His fingernails bite into his palms, as he squeezes his hands into fists in the front pocket of his hoodie.

“I love you, Anthony,” Reyes says. A promise. For a different day.

“Yeah,” Ryder croaks. He barely makes it to the door, before he breaks out in a run.

\--

They should leave Kadara, but Ryder has to give the command.

SAM keeps his door sealed. The lights low. His throat is dry and back sore, from laying down too much. It's been two days.

“Anwar is trying to reach you,” SAM says.

_**I don't care.** _

“Kosta is outside your door.”

_**I don't care.** _

“Pathfinder.”

_**Please.** _

“Pathfinder, he is now attempting to hack through your door controls.”

“Well, stop him,” Ryder pulls the blankets tight around him, blocking out the light and curling tight against the mattress.

“I don't think that I should stop him.”

_**Fuck you.** _

“Shit,” Kosta curses from the other side of the door. His hack has failed. Even without SAM’s assistance, it might take a dozen tries for Kosta to break through the encryption.

With Kosta right outside the door, Ryder can't get to sleep. His body tenses as he waits for the inevitable. Then there is a second set of footsteps outside the door. Shit, fuck. Brodie. It only takes him one attempt to disengage the lock.

“Okay, Ryder,” Kosta says, as soon as the door slides open. His voice softens as he enters the Pathfinder’s quarters, “We need to talk.”

Ryder doesn't make a sound, doesn't move. From what he can tell, Brodie doesn't leave either.

_They are concerned about your well-being._

Kosta sits on the bed, his weight pushing down the mattress. “We need to go to the Nexus. And Lexi says you need a doctor.”

Ryder doesn't point out the obvious, that she's a doctor.

“We know this has been hard on you...it's hard on all of us,” Kosta’s weight shifts a bit. Then Brodie sits down next to him.

“But you haven't had,” Brodie pauses, “Ryder, you need to talk to someone.”

“There isn't time,” Ryder says, relenting. If he stays silent, they will only worry more. “Once we go to the Nexus, we’ll have to find Meridian. The mission can't wait for me to get better.” Inside his head he screams that no amount of time will fix what's wrong with him.

“We can't stay docked in Kadara either,” Kosta sighs, “Ryder, we’re in this holding pattern, we have to move. You have to move.”

“Fine,” Ryder barks, “SAM, tell Jath to depart for the Nexus.” Without removing the blankets, he sneers, “Happy now?”

Both of them sit with Ryder a bit longer. Until well after the Tempest leaves Kadara’s atmosphere. But neither of them attempt to push him any further,

\--

Pathfinder Raeka meets with Anwar, Peebee, and Brodie. They discuss the probes they’ll need to track Meridian’s trajectory from the Remnant station. They’ll have to return to the station itself, once the probes are in place, to make the final calculations. Anwar is certain their plan will work. Peebee and Brodie are certain they can build the tracking systems they’ll need

Ryder sits quietly during the discussion, hands shoved in his pocket. SAM gives him a run-down of the highlights, while he stares up into the lighting fixtures. The overheads are turned up from the last time. With the other Arks now docked, they have enough power to operate the Nexus at 86 percent.

“Excuse me,” a human woman stands in the doorway to the Pathfinders’ office, tapping at the wall behind her to draw their attention, “I'm looking for Pathfinder Ryder?”

Ryder sits up straight again, leaning forward across the table, “Yeah?”

“Dr. Carlyle sent me. Your sister is awake.”

Pushing his chair away from the table, Ryder jumps up, “I have to go, I'm sorry,” he babbles, “I have to, I have to.” No one tries to stop him on his way out.

\--

Dr. Carlyle meets him just outside the infirmary, holding out his hands to stop Ryder from getting any closer. Ryder stops short, before Carlyle can touch him, “She's fine. But let's be gentle with her.”

“I want to see my sister,” Ryder says, he doesn't want to wait.

Dr. Carlyle nods, “Just take it easy. I haven't told her you were com-”

Ryder steps around him, barrelling into the infirmary.

Aurelia is in the same bed as the last time Anthony saw her. He hasn't come here since SAM linked their implants. He's been afraid of hurting her. He's afraid of hurting her now.

Aurelia’s bed is tilted so she can sit up. A paper cup of water in her hands.

The sound he lets out isn't a word, but Aurelia turns sharply, dropping the half-empty cup in her lap, “Shit.”

“Aurelia,” Anthony reaches for the cup. The water is already soaked into her blankets.

“I need a fucking shower anyway,” she smiles.

Anthony is left holding the cup carefully in one hand, while one of Carlyle’s aides switches out the blankets. Aurelia gives Anthony a pleading look, but they don't speak until the aide steps away.

“Fuck, fuck,” Anthony rests his forehead against the railing of Aurelia’s bed, dropping into a crouch. “I know they said everything was fine,” he tilts his head up to look at her, “but I was so fucking scared.”

Aurelia tugs at his hair before letting go, “I'm not that easy to get rid of.” She bites her bottom lip, “So...Pathfinder, huh?”

“Yeah…”

“Uh,” she looks around. While the infirmary isn't empty, no one is really standing within earshot either, “They know you're not good with-”

“With what?”

“Fucking anything? I mean,” she looks down into her empty hands, “Dad didn't prepare us for this.”

“Yeah,” Anthony looks for a chair. Pulling one over, he sits at Aurelia’s bedside. “SAM has helped a lot. The cooldowns on my suit are shorter, it helps me aim. Repeats information so I don't forget. SAM helps me...manage.”

“That's good,” but she keeps chewing on her lip, it's already red, dead skin peeling away. “I should be out there, with you though.” She laughs, “I thought we were going to tear this place up.”

“Yeah,” Anthony smiles. A second chance at adolescence. Even though they're both supposed to be grown.

She sighs, “I'm proud of you.”

“You don't even know what I've done,” he argues.

“I don't know. I know you're alive. The Ark is in one piece. You're sober. And you haven't fucked the wrong guy. That's pretty good, for you,” she teases.

When Anthony frowns, she realizes her mistake.

“Shit,” she leans back against the pillow.

\--

Aurelia is still too weak to go with them. She has to stay aboard the Nexus.

Once the probes are ready, the Tempest departs.

Anthony is relieved no one seems to remember the ‘help’ he supposedly needs. He didn't think they would. He's moving again. That's all that matters.


	16. My Worst Memories are my Best Decisions

“Jaal is outside your door,” SAM informs him.

They’re on a course back to the Remnant station. The final piece of the puzzle, to follow Meridian’s trajectory through the scourge.

Ryder sits up in bed, wrapping his arms around his blanket-covered legs. Then, running his fingers through his hair, he tells SAM, “Let him in.”

The door slides open, and Jaal looks surprised, standing at the threshold, refusing to come inside.

“What do you need?” Ryder asks, propping himself up against the headboard. Tugging at the sheets, he tries to cover his chest, even though he wears a shirt.

Taking a step inside, Jaal frowns when the doors slide closed. “You are sleeping more,” he says.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Ryder crosses his hands over his chest, “It’s fine, I’ll be good to go when we reach the station.”

“I asked Lexi about human sleeping habits,” he continues, seemingly oblivious to Ryder’s excuses. “She believes you are suffering.”

“That’s not what she said,” Ryder argues. There’s no way she used that word.

“That you suffer from ‘depression,’” Jaal corrects.

Ryder can’t help but laugh, “It’s something. I don’t know. But it will be fine. I can still do what I need to do.”

“She says you should be taking medication.”

_He is trying to help._

“Maybe...I don’t know,” Ryder sighs, pulling at his hair, “this has been a lot. Once it is over. I’ll...figure something out.” He rubs his feet against the sheets. “We don’t have time right now. But after. Once we’re done.”

Jaal nods, “You are too special, too wonderful a person, to let this sadness take you.”

Pressing his face against his bent legs, Ryder doesn’t have the will to tell Jaal to leave, especially not after Jaal walks over, sitting at Ryder’s side. Ryder leans against him, their shoulders bumping. Jaal touches his hair.

“Is this inappropriate?” Jaal asks.

“It’s fine, you’re fine,” it’s sort of nice, to let Jaal comfort him.

“When this is over,” Jaal continues, “I’d like for you to meet my family. If that is alright with you. I think it would be...special. For both of us.”

Ryder doesn’t know how to refuse Jaal, even now. He mutters, “Okay.”

_**SAM?** _

_**SAM, you could fix my brain…** _

_**...right?** _

_Pathfinder,_

_I have been making adjustments to your brain chemistry since your father died._

_**Oh, okay.** _

_The events on Kadara were an unexpected variable. I have been working to correct inconsistencies._

_Like any other treatment, it takes time._

_**I understand.** _

_**Thank you, SAM.** _

Jaal wraps his arm around Ryder’s shoulders, thumbing at his neck.

\--

Ryder presses his hand to the Remnant console, waiting for SAM to install Anwar’s software. They watch as the Remnant ships launch, following Meridian's vector through the Scourge. The planet itself comes into focus. A hollow world, at the center of the Remnant network. This is what they’ve worked so hard for. Ryder could cry out. Instead, he smiles, “This is it.”

Crackling pain strikes the apex of Ryder’s spine. Ryder drops to his knees.

“Congratulations, Pathfinder,” the Archon’s voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. Ryder looks up, but there’s nothing there. “This is a great day for us all.”

Shutting his eyes, Ryder sees the Archon’s face, blurry and indistinct. The noise. The noise is coming from inside of him. A dull, building roar, cushioning the Archon’s mocking celebration.

Opening his eyes, the Archon is still there, sharper, clearer than before. The curve of his bone plates, his flat, flared nostrils, the sharp corners of his irises. Close, so close. Ryder calls for SAM. The only reply, a sharp, steady hiss of static.

He feels the Archon’s hands, dry and rough against his face, wrapping around his throat. Ryder grabs at his neck, trying to pull the hands away, but all he touches is his own smooth skin.

_**SAM? SAM!** _

There is no answer.

_**SAM SAM SAM SAMSAMSAM S A M Sam.** _

_**I need you.** _

_**Don’t leave me.** _

_**Sam...** _

Ryder stumbles forward, the Archon’s low voice screeching in his skull, drowning out his cries for help. When he looks at Jaal, his mouth is moving, but there’s no sound. Peebee touches him, but there’s no sensation. He tries to walk.

“I believed you a fitting rival, but you are a false thing. A lie.”

_**I know. Don’t you think I fucking know?**_

Tearing at his armor, Ryder gets the latch open. He thinks he might drown in his own sweat. Everything is too hot. Too tight. The electronics in his greeves seize, and he stumbles.

“Once I saw what made you special, your connection, I knew how and when to take it from you.

_**Sam, please, Sam.** _

He can’t make his fingers bend, as he tries to rip off his chestpiece. There’s no pressure when he pushes. His limbs won’t work. And then he realizes, it’s not his armor. It’s him. It’s him it’s him it’s him.

“I let you find Meridian, and now I’ll use your SAM to weaponize it.”

That doesn’t make sense. Ryder can’t make sense of what the Archon says. There are words, syntax, meaning, but everything starts to blend. Into a murky soup of noise.

“All I need to start is an implant like yours.”

Aurelia.

“And thanks to your memories, I know who else has one.”

Ryder thinks he must be screaming.

But all he knows for certain is that his face is soaked with tears.

The door closes in his face.

And then, the darkness that awaits.

Isn’t this what he wanted, all along?

_**SAM, what have you done to me?** _

\--

**2183**

_Anshu? Are you on shift?_

_yeah for another three hours_

_I don't have that much time._

Anthony rolls his eyes, though under his helmet, it's not like anyone will see. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he tries not to get too stiff. He hates being on guard rotation, but they each have to take their turn. Another couple of years, and he’ll be able to switch to analytics full-time. But kids fresh out of training don't get that luxury.

There are worse assignments than Arcturus. Maybe. At least, Anthony assumes there are.

The shift leader, Hale, taps her comm. She’s too far down the corridor to hear who she’s talking to. It's not any of Anthony’s business anyway. He leans against the wall behind him, taking some of the weight off his tired feet. Technically, they're supposed to stand up straight. But he's never had a senior officer correct him.

Hale clicks her comm back off, turning and heading towards Anthony. He looks away, down at his feet, straightening his posture just in case. What a time for her to turn into a hardass.

“You're relieved, Ryder,” she says, clicking her tongue inside her mouth. “Stanford is already on his way over. And we’re slow anyway.”

Anthony looks up from the ground, briefly enough to make sure that she's not mad. She doesn't look mad, just sort of drowsy. She's right, the day has been slow.

“Oh, alright,” Anthony reaches across his chest, grabbing at his opposite shoulder. “See you tomorrow, then?”

“Do we overlap again?” she asks.

Anthony has checked the timetables eight or nine times, “Yeah, I get on shift at ten.”

“Guess I'll see you then,” she takes Anthony’s place for the time being. Probably only as long a it will take Stanford to get here.

He doesn't bother asking why he's been dismissed. He already knows.

A shower would be nice. He feels all sticky under his armor. Too much weight for not enough action. But there's not really time. He'd have to stop in his room to get his towel, a change of clothes.

The door to his room is unlocked. Semiyr never bothers to lock the door, after he's arrived. After the last time Semiyr visited, Anthony had his keycode duped. So even if he changes the passlock, Semiyr can let himself in without brute forcing hacking it open.

“Semiyr?” Anthony opens the door. All the lights are on.

Semiyr is in Anthony’s bed, still fully dressed, except his boots tucked neatly by the door. His N7 windbreaker is on the coat hook that Anthony never uses. He's propped up, with his back against the wall, a data tablet in his hands. “Anshu,” he smiles, “you’re here, good.”

Anthony crouches down to unlace his boots. Eventually, he just sits on the floor to take them off. Easier. Leaving them by the door, he starts to strip away his armor. “What did you tell Hale?” he asks, curious.

Semiyr puts the datapad down, standing up to walk over to Anthony. He puts his hand on Anthony’s hip, pulling him close. “Nothing really, that’s the advantage of rank,” he smiles. Putting his hand at the back of Anthony’s neck, he pulls him down so their lips meet.

Anthony whines into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Semiyr’s waist, drawing him closer still. Semiyr pushes him until he’s back against the wall. His sweaty tee rides up, sticking damp to the metal siding. He gives and gives, forcing Semiyr to take.

Grabbing at Anthony’s leg, Semiyr hoists him up off the floor. He’s strong enough to keep Anthony up, legs wrapped around his waist and the wall behind him. Holding Anthony like this kills some of the difference in their heights.

Semiyr grinds into him, sharp punctuations of his hips. Dropping his head back against the wall, Anthony shows his neck, letting Semiyr bite it raw. His armor covers everything. Besides, he doesn’t really care who knows. No one ever says anything.

Anthony fists his hands in Semiyr’s hair, though there’s not much to grab, short, silvery strands sticking out between his fingers. Semiyr bites again, hot and wet at Anthony’s collarbone, bottom teeth blunted by Anthony’s shirt.

“Can’t decide,” Semiyr chuckles, “If I want to fuck your face first, or your ass.”

Anthony groans, constricting his legs tight around Semiyr’s hips.

“Did you get the present I sent?” Semiyr asks, though he must know the answer.

“Yeah,” Anthony rasps. “I did.”

“Have you used it?”

Anthony nods, biting at his lip,

“Like it?” Semiyr’s hazel eyes are bright and clear. His voice sincere.

Anthony challenges, “Yeah, but could have been bigger.”

Groaning, Semiyr drops Anthony’s legs, letting them hit the floor. “I want to watch you take it, then.”

Anthony smiles, pecking quickly against Semiyr’s lips before sliding out from against the wall. He crouches down to pull the box from his bottom desk drawer, opening it up to retrieve Semiyr’s present. He sent it weeks ago, wrapped inconspicuously. It was a nice thought, really.

The phallus isn’t overly long, starting tapered and thicking out towards the base. Anthony was maybe a little prideful, when he teased it could be bigger. He grabs the lube as well, before snatching the front of Semiyr’s shirt and dragging him off towards the bed.

Sitting back against the wall, Anthony shucks his boxers and spreads his legs. Bending one, he makes sure that Semiyr has a worthwhile view. He pops open the bottle of lubricant, slicking his fingers first. He’ll need to finger himself for a minute, before trying to take the toy.

Semiyr sits at the foot of the bed, one leg falling off and the other tucked underneath him. The wrinkles around his eyes, across his forehead, deepen, as he stares at Anthony with rapt attention. He keeps his hands to himself, for now. But Anthony knows that won’t last long.

Anthony lets out an exaggerated gasp and he slips the first finger in his hole, working it in and out. He looks up with mock shyness at Semiyr, who isn’t looking anywhere near Anthony’s face. The second finger slides in smoothly and Anthony rocks his hips. For the moment, he’s hard, with Semiyr staring at him and the pleasant pressure against his rim. While his fingers are long, they’re not quite thick enough to be satisfying.

“Do you like it?” Anthony asks, dragging his fingers slow, all the way out so his hole closes, before dipping back inside.

“Such a good boy, for me,” Semiyr says, as if in a daze.

Anthony smiles, grabbing the toy off the bed, “I think I’m ready now.” He dribbles more lube onto his fingers, rubbing it over the phallus. “Do you want to help me?”

Semiyr looks up, his face flushed. Though he’s still wearing pants, his cock strains against the fabric. Anthony pulls up his shirt a little bit, as he presses the tip of the toy against his hole.

“I’m lonely, Semiyr…”

Hearing his name seems to rouse Semiyr from his daze, dragging his body forward in the bed. He pushes at Anthony’s chest, until he puts his head against the pillow. Grabbing one of Anthony’s legs, he hoists it over his shoulder, leaving him open and vulnerable. “Give it to me,” he commands.

Anthony nods, passing Semiyr the toy. Semiyr is always too fast, too rough at first. But Anthony doesn’t correct him. He gets used to the burn, to the steady press of Semiyr’s presents or his cock.

Pressing the wet tip of the toy to Anthony’s hole, Semiyr thrusts it in. The tapered tip makes the initial penetration smooth, and he slides until he meets resistance. Anthony breathes steadily, flickering his eyes open and shut as he stretches around its girth.

Semiyr looks down between their bodies, watching as the toy disappears into Anthony’s body while he works. Anthony groans on each thrust, fisting the sheets between his fingers, slowly, slowly moving his hips to meet Semiyr’s thrusts.

“You’re so good at this,” Semiyr praises, “so good at taking it…”

“Yes,” Anthony hisses. “Please, just, more.”

Semiyr puts his other hand flat against Anthony’s stomach, pressing down as the toy fills Anthony up. Anthony’s thigh muscles strain as he keeps himself spread.

“You really could take more, bigger, couldn’t you,” still his gaze is fixed on Anthony’s lower half. Semiyr’s hand drifts from his stomach to wrap around Anthony’s cock. It’s gone somewhat soft from the penetration, but with a few deliberate strokes, he’s hard again.

“For you I could,” Anthony pleads, taking his hands to Semiyr’s shoulders, he grabs onto the fabric of his shirt, “for you, for you.”

Semiyr tilts his head to one side, looking at Anthony’s face only briefly, before turning away. “Do you think my cock could fit next to it?”

Anthony groans at the idea. Maybe. But he would have to practice first to see. He’s seen men do it in vids before. But he’s slightly scared of the idea. “I’d try…” he admits.

Semiyr likes the sound of that, driving the phallus deep, putting pressure against Anthony’s prostate before pulling back. But he must be too impatient to try today, because he pulls the toy all the way out, dropping it on the sheets.

Stripping from his pants and shirt, Semiyr has to release Anthony’s leg. Anthony takes the moment to pull off his own shirt as well. He stretches against the mattress, waiting for Semiyr to return.

Semiyr takes the bottle, lubing his cock and tossing it back into the sheets. Anthony lifts his leg, bending it over Semiyr’s shoulder as he gets into position. Semiyr puts Anthony’s other leg up and over too.

His cock isn’t as thick as the base of the toy, but it’s warmer, nicer. And the angle is so, so good. Anthony is almost bent in half as Semiyr fucks into him, his chest hair scraping against Anthony’s smoother skin. Semiyr bottoms out, his balls slapping against Anthony’s ass. Anthony lets his enjoyment fall from his lips, babblings of all the things Semiyr could do to him.

Anthony holds onto Semiyr’s shoulders, keeping them locked together. He’s sore already from the force of it, the utter determination with which Semiyr fucks him. It’s a heady feeling, and Anthony feels so small, pinned and controlled. Semiyr puts one hand at Anthony’s throat, closing over top of it and pressing down.

Anthony doesn’t really care if he’s loud. If it’s the middle of the day. He cries out as he comes, from the friction of his own cock against Semiyr’s stomach and the fullness in his ass. He closes his eyes as he tries to breathe and can’t. But it’s not dangerous yet. Semiyr is careful about that. He’d never hurt him. And when the pressure lets up, Anthony sucks down air, watching with wide eyes as Semiyr comes inside him. The pleasure dancing across his handsome features.

Semiyr rolls off from on top of him, hitting the mattress with a firm thud. They’re both sweat-sticky and covered in Anthony’s cum, drying on their abdomens.

Anthony runs his fingers down the center of Semiyr’s chest. Despite his age, he’s still incredibly fit. Of course he is.

“Mmm,” Anthony hums happily. “I’ll suck you off next.”

Semiyr laughs, kissing into Anthony’s hair and offering an arm so Anthony can settle against his chest. “Anshu, you will be the death of me,” he runs his fingers through Anthony’s hair.

“You’re the one who came to visit.”

“True, true.”

Anthony starts playing with Semiyr’s free hand, tugging at each finger idylly. Not thinking anything of it, he squeezes around the smooth indentation where Semiyr wears his wedding band. He never wears it when he sees Anthony.

When Semiyr realizes what Anthony is doing, he draws his hand back sharply, as if burned.

Confused, Anthony asks, “What?” lifting his head from Semiyr’s chest.

Semiyr frowns at him and Anthony rolls his eyes, putting his head back down.

“You think I didn’t know?” Anthony has always known that Semiyr is married. But nothing about the person. Female, he assumes. Because when they first met in that bar, months ago, Semiyr said something about never being with a man before. But that might be a lie. Anthony doesn’t care either way. “You have a tan line too,” Anthony hesitates before comforting, “I don’t care. I’m not like that. I won't cause a problem for you.”

Semiyr exhales but says nothing. Across the room, in his jacket, his comm beeps. “I have to take that,” he says, disentangling from Anthony’s grip.

He walks naked across the room. Anthony ogles his ass unabashedly. Fishing the comm out of his jacket pocket, Semiyr switches it on, “Here.”

“Oh! Sam,” the voice on the other end comes through, “We’re twenty minutes from jump, you about done?”

“I thought we had another hour?”

“Captain’s orders,” the voice sing-songs, before cutting out.

He turns back to Anthony, his expression apologetic, “That’s my ride.”

“I know,” Anthony forces a smile, “I don’t mind.”

It’s okay.

\--

Their mom is too ill to attend the gala, so their father insists that they appear instead. Anthony arrives in his dress uniform, as required. With his nothing-rank anonymity, he may as well be naked.

At least Aurelia is in the same position, groaning that she'd rather wear a dress. She's pinned her hair atop her head, instead of the pigtail braids she prefers in the field, to keep it out of her face.

The liquor is free, so, there's that. And they pregamed in the hotel while getting dressed. Their father thought they'd be fine sharing a room. Anthony doesn't mind, unless Aurelia finds someone she wants to take home. But this is an Alliance event, so maybe not.

Aurelia convinces the bartender to give her a full can of sticky-sweet cola. They use it to chase their shots. Their expertise working the Citadel bars pays off, and so far, they've managed not to get cut off.

Anthony, presses two fingers against her nose, “I like yours better than mine.”

“You can't have it,” she laughs, batting his hand away.

They haven't seen their father all evening. Probably won’t. He booked the hotel in their names, but they didn't see him before the gala, either. The Ryder twins are here as decoration. So their father doesn't look like such a recluse.

“You know they're starting to ask questions,” Aurelia's face goes dark.

Anthony takes another sip of his vodka, chasing it with the soda, “About what?”

“Dad’s research. I heard someone gossiping at the bar.”

“Whatever,” he passes the can back to Aurelia, “nothing's going to happen. Nothing ever happens.” He feels like they've been stuck in this loop for twenty years. Everything is important to their father. Everything but them.

Anthony leans against the wall, setting his glass on the window sill.

That's when he sees Semiyr across the room. Sharply dressed for the event, his N7 designation affixed to his breast, nestled next to his other commendations. He smiles politely at the attendant who takes his coat. Then turns to take his wife’s jacket from her hands.

Oh, of course.

She's lovely, Anthony supposes.

His chest feels tight. He has to look away.

Aurelia creases her brow, frowning, then looking in Semiyr’s direction. “Oh, Anthony,” she whispers, “You didn't.”

He grabs his vodka glass, but it's empty. “I'll get you another too,” he says, taking Aurelia’s glass from her hand.

She touches his shoulder as he leaves.

Breathe. Just breathe. It's okay. He tells himself this is okay. This has...never been a problem for him before.

Anthony orders two glasses of vodka over ice. Tapping his fingers against the bar, he waits for the drinks to come back.

When Semiyr steps beside him, Anthony doesn't have to look to know it's him. Too well, Anthony knows the weight of his lover’s presence, the smell of his body mixed with cologne.

Semiyr says nothing. Anthony says nothing.

“Sam?” a woman’s voice cuts through, “I changed my mind. Just the wine for me.” She tries to sneak into the gap between Anthony and Semiyr. Why wouldn't she? They're strangers, waiting for their drinks. “Oh, I'm sorry!” she says with beautiful sincerity, when she accidentally brushes against Anthony’s shoulder.

When Anthony returns to Aurelia empty handed, she doesn't ask about the drinks. She presses her lips into a line, reaching up to wipe at his cheeks. But he can't stop crying.


	17. The Stars are Dimmer than we Thought, Because We're Brighter than the Sum of our Failures

“Tempest, come in, Ryder is down.”

“Oh, oh, fuck.”

Someone is banging against the door. Louder, louder. Faster. Faster.

Ryder opens his eyes, blinking in the darkness all around him. His vision sharpens, until he sees Peebee’s face, upside down over top of him.

“Jaal,” she looks up, then back down at Ryder, “he’s awake.”

Ryder’s head is in her lap, her hands cradling his head. Blinking, he lifts his arms. His hands are bloody. When he turns his neck, pain courses through him.

“Careful,” Peebee warns. Her voice goes soft, “You tried to tear out your implant.”

Swallowing, Ryder puts his hands back down.

_**SAM?** _

There’s no answer.

“There was some sort of power surge,” Peebee tries explaining, “and you started seizing up, stumbling, shouting,” she shakes her head. “The medigel should be done working soon. And Jaal stopped you before you could damage your spinal column. You only just managed to rip through your skin.”

“SAM, SAM’s gone. I can’t hear them,” Ryder feels the rising panic in his voice. “Aurelia….the Archon, he was in my head. He’s taken SAM, he’s going to use Aurelia to get to SAM.”

Jaal crouches down beside them, taking one bloodied hand between his, “Ryder, breathe with me,” he tries to soothe.

Ryder feels cold all over. Clammy and sick where Jaal and Peebee touch him. They're too close. He wants to get away. How much longer until the medigel finishes?

He pulls his hand away from Jaal’s, trying to push himself up to sitting. Peebee doesn’t try and restrain him. Jaal frowns and moves away.

“The Archon,” his words come in ragged gasps, “He has the Hyperion, we have to get back.”

Reaching behind his head, Ryder touches his neck. It still feels like mangled meat, warm and wet where he tried to claw himself apart in his fit. He stands, stumbles forward, towards the Remnant console. As he gets close, it lights up, though SAM is no longer working through his body.

“No, Ryder, without SAM,” Jaal steps forward, grabbing Ryder’s wrist and jerking it away from the console before he can activate it.

“What?” Ryder growls, turning to face Jaal. “What other choice do I have?”

Jaal’s face falls, but his grip remains tight around Ryder’s wrist, “We don’t know it will work. And you are already weak.”

“I am always weak, Jaal,” Ryder sneers, “if I let that stop me, we wouldn’t have gotten anywhere.” He pulls his hand free, smashing it against the console before Jaal can stop him. “We have to get back.”

The console depresses as it always has when Ryder touches it. But this time, Ryder bears the full brunt of the Remnant defense systems against a foreign intruder, pushing back against his fragile body. The console tries to push him back out, keep its secrets locked away.

Ryder screams in agony as the console thrusts back against his hand, throwing it aside. His hand feels both hot and cold. Heavy and electric. The tech is fucking with his nervous system, sending sensations haywire. But he has to open the fucking door.

“Ryder,” Peebee pleads, “stop, we’ll find another way.”

He ignores her, slamming down his hand again, pushing with what little strength remains. The door ahead starts to move. Ryder takes his other hand, forcing down his left into the panel, no matter how loudly his body screams to run. To stop. It’s too much. He sobs, a broken thing, and has to try again when the door slams shut.

Jaal moves to grab at him again, and this time Ryder hits him, square in the jaw. Ryder isn’t one for hand-to-hand, but Jaal is so shocked, the weak strike of Ryder’s punch doesn’t matter.

“We have to get back,” Ryder repeats. “He has my sister.”

The third time, Ryder presses all his weight down onto his hand, forcing the console to stay open. Pain blooms up his arm, unfolding in his chest. He forces himself to breathe as the console pulses.

Jaal runs towards the door, trying to help jam it open. He wedges his shoulders against the top panel, shouting at Peebee to run through first, “Ryder!”

Ryder yanks his hand from the console, tripping towards the door. Jaal strains to keep it open, as Ryder stumbles through. Once all three of them have made it to the other side, Ryder sees clearly where the pressure of the door dented Jaal’s armor.

“I’m sorry,” Ryder mumbles, touching his own face where he struck Jaal. The matching region of Jaal’s face is already starting to darken and swell.

Both Brodie and Jath’s voices cut through the comms, stumbling over top of one another.

“We’re here,” Ryder confirms, as they rush back towards the Tempest.

Anwar talks over them both, “Pathfinder, the Kett have cut our comms. They’ve taken control of the Hyperion as well.”

“I know, I know,” Ryder rushes, “We have to get to them.” He throws himself into the gravity well.

“Have Lexi on standby,” Peebee relays, “Ryder needs treatment.”

“We need to get to the Hyperion,” he barks, letting the well take him.

\--

As they approach the Tempest, Dr. T’Perro rushes towards him, her scanner in one hand. Everyone talks at once, relaying what little they know. Ryder can’t understand a word of it. He stands in silence while they bicker, throwing ideas, left and right. Shooting them down just as quickly.

He can’t tell who is talking, or what he’s supposed to say. He stops himself, before he calls out to SAM. He puts his hands over his ears.

What did they say?

Communications to the Ark are cut off. The Archon is on the path to Meridian, with a flotilla of Kett ships. The Tempest is all alone in the vast ocean of the sea. The Tempest has no offensive capabilities. It feels as if the Kett have won.

What are their options?

Ryder turns towards the Remnant console, at the edge of the landing platform. Down below, he sees the expanse of the base, stretching out before them, terminating in the oppressive darkness of space.

Why is he here? In this place?

Because he was afraid. And broken. He feels broken now.

Somehow, he knows what this console is for.

“We have a choice,” Ryder says, and the Tempest crew turns their attention to him.

Harper asks, “Ryder?”

He steps away from the group, heading for the console. This time, he knows to put his weight into the panel. He places his hand against the surface, watching as is shifts.

If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that the pain is only temporary.

Something is wrong. It has always been wrong. SAM could mask the symptoms, but not the disease. And Ryder knows with certainty, now, that the Remnant tech has been shredding him from the inside all along.

SAM never told him.

The ground rumbles beneath them as the Remnant ships rise from the bowels of the station, beautifully alight as the obey Ryder’s commands. They hold in position, silently floating, as Ryder makes his decision.

Peebee rushes over, her mouth open, eyes alarmed, “You did...an impossible thing…”

“You can control them,” Harper whispers, staring out upon their new fleet. “Can you keep this up? Have them fight for us?”

“Yeah,” Ryder chokes. There's bright light behind his eyes. The longer he looks, the harder it is to see. He tries to blink away the harsh glare, but it won't go. His face is wet, dribbling towards his lip. When he licks at it, he tastes blood. Trying to wipe it away, he realizes it's too late, when he catches Harper’s expression.

Peebee asks, “Is it enough for us to win?”

“Enough for us to try,” Ryder concedes.

\--

Help joins them from across the cluster. Dozens of ships converging on Meridian. They're not alone. The allies that they've made over the preceding months arrive in a triumphant march.

The Kett may yet win.

But they refuse to go out with a whimper.

Ryder races the Nomad towards the monolith, dodging fire from overhead. He weaves between the trees, the rocks, the waterfalls. All the beauty Meridian has to offer.

A tangle of voices shout through his comm. He can't reasonably parse what's going on. All he knows is that Aurelia is ahead of them, the Ark is falling from the sky, and time is running down.

They hit a Kett blockade, hard and fast, the Nomad breaking through the first set of barriers. Peebee screams as the Nomad tumbles onto its side. It skids into the second set of obstacles, before friction grinds it to a stop.

Ryder pops the doors, yelling at everyone to get out. With the Nomad on its side, Jaal and Harper have to climb out first, before Ryder, Drack, and Peebee can drag themselves out the passenger side.

The green planet is littered with broken Kett bodies, shattered by the force of the Nomad’s bulk.

Without SAM to guide his hand, to make the world quiet, Ryder must push ahead. Drack and Harper try to keep in front of him, pinning down hostiles with gravity and suppressive fire.

Ryder keeps his hand raised, striking out with every power he can conjure in quick succession. Overload their shields. Cryofreeze, shatter with Incinerate. His pistol stays on his hip, worthless without SAM’s aim assist.

There’s a pause as his tech powers cool. Ryder counts down the seconds until he knows they’re ready, making the next push forward.

Over the noise of battle, Ryder barely registers the dropships coming in. Sometimes they’re Kett, sometimes they’re allies, but the barking in his headset is too loud.

Ryder pulls off his helmet to stop the noise. If his shields don’t keep him afloat, the helmet only affords him a few second more. Not worth it. Everyone talking is too much of a distraction.

“Anthony!”

That voice though. That one breaks through the tangle.

Reyes dives in next to Anthony in crouched cover, his operatives on the transport laying down suppressive fire as they start retreating.

“Keep your helmet on,” he grabs the helmet from where Ryder tossed it, trying to stick it back on his head.

“Too noisy,” Ryder argues, trying to push Reyes and the helmet away.

Reyes pauses for a moment, before reaching into the collar of Ryder’s chestpiece and tearing at the junction wire that links into his comms. “Better?” he asks.

Ryder nods, taking his helmet from Reyes’ hands and putting it back on himself, “Okay.”

With their helmets on, Ryder has no idea what Reyes’ expression looks like, but his voice is fond. Too gentle for the moment, “Let’s win.”

“Okay.”

Reyes came. He came for Anthony. And for the time being, it doesn’t matter to Ryder if Reyes’ motivations were for his new home, his status, his safety. Ryder needs help. Everything he can scrounge, and Reyes came.

They lose and find each other in the firefight, Reyes alternating between his assault rifle and tech powers, cutting through the Kett lines. Ryder keeps up the unrelenting pace he’s set for himself, clipping his attacks closer and closer together, pushing the boundaries of his power systems, until he feels his suit getting hot.

One final push and they’ll be at the monolith doors. Ryder doesn’t know how much farther yet, once they are inside. While he’s the one leading the charge, he knows Harper is still in communications with the Tempest. Anwar feeding her information about Kett positions.

Another Kett ship swoops in, a dozen grunts jumping from the open hatch. One of Drack’s scouts is with them. Heavy, hulking, and utterly without mercy. Ryder pulses fire at the Kett’s transformed plates, hardened even further by Exaltation. His attack barely leaves a dent. Ryder uses cryo to at least slow the hulking figure down, but it has already fixed its volcanic anger on the Pathfinder. It charges towards Ryder’s position, each step shaking the battlefield.

Ryder jumps away as the Kett swings its massive shotgun at his face. The cryo wears off and Ryder hits it with Incinerate again. Screaming, on fire, the Kett readies its weapon, unloading into Ryder’s shields. Ryder’s defenses flicker out. He scrambles to get away. Another blast shoots over his head, popping the Kett with Overload, and while its shields are already broken, the electricity causes the twisted beast to stumble.

“Anthony,” Reyes jumps on top of him, using his shields to protect them both while Ryder’s recharge. But it’s not enough. And their shields are useless against melee strikes. The Kett lifts its shotgun as a blunt weapon, bringing it down on Reyes’ back.

Ryder hears the crack and screams.

Reyes’ weight goes limp on top of him. Shutting his eyes, Ryder panics. He shouldn’t move Reyes, if his spine has been damaged. They have to move or Reyes will be struck again.

_**Now, now, now, nownownow.** _

He knows what’s there. And he knows it’s weak. And he thinks himself a selfish brat. Because it didn’t matter one fucking bit when it was his own life at risk. But now he’s helpless, and Ryder wishes he were stronger.

He doesn’t know how to control it. Only to suppress. Throw his sister to the wolves. Lessons to craft her abilities, until she could safely use them in service to humanity.

But Ryder can feel the space around them bending, as his biotic potential flares. It’s only that, potential, wrapping around Reyes, lashing out wildly, without elegance, against their attacker. It only buys them three seconds, before Ryder feels dizzy and weak, like he’s falling into the hollow core of Meridian.

That’s all they need.

Drack comes roaring in, bashing the Kett to the ground, “Ryder!”

“He’s hurt, he’s hurt, he’s hurt,” Ryder repeats, looking for the latch on Reyes’ helmet.

Peebee slides in next to them, her pistol still drawn, “We’ll get him lifted out,” she clicks her comm, “we need a transport on my position.”

The gunfire sounds so far away.

“Please, please, please,” Ryder can’t shut up. If his lips stop moving, Reyes will let go.

“The transport is coming,” Peebee says, her voice uneven, “shit, shit. We need to get him off of you.”

Drack is strong enough to move Reyes easily, without his weight shifting too much and causing more damage. They lay him flat on the ground, waiting for the transport.

“Ryder,” Harper shouts, “we need to move, now! The monolith!”

Ryder sits up, gasping in between tears. Reyes still hasn’t moved.

“I’ll stay with him,” Drack says, “They’ll need me to help load him in.”

Peebee grabs Ryder by the arm, dragging him away.

\--

Dr. Carlyle has Aurelia moved from the infirmary to Ryder’s quarters on the crashed Hyperion.

The settlement process has already begun, shifting the Ark into a permanent base on Meridian’s surface. Smaller outposts have set out to inhabit the planet. Jaal coordinates with the Angara to send settlers as well.

Aurelia is recovering well, all her vital signs are normal. They need the infirmary beds for those still receiving treatment.

Reyes is not among them.

His friend, Keema, sent a special transport to return Reyes to Kadara, once he had been stabilized. Ryder doesn’t know anything more than that. There have been no messages.

He sits in front of his father’s terminal, clicking into reports and back out. He’s already read everything he has access to, in fits and starts. Even now, he’s not sure where to begin. He’s not sure how this ever ends.

Reaching around his neck, he taps at his spine, where his implant has scarred over. He closes his eyes and breathes, pushing away from the desk.

Ryder shoves his hands in his front pocket, heading towards the door. He walks the half dozen steps to SAM node. The doors slide shut behind him. SAM is the only light in the room.

“Ryder.”

“Hi,” Ryder tugs at the front of his hair. He doesn’t really have anything to say.

That first day, when Ryder didn’t know if Reyes was alive or dead, when Aurelia was still too weak to stand, when his own head felt like crashing waves and his body like it belonged to someone else, SAM requested access to Ryder’s implant.

Ryder said no.

“Why, why do you want to...be in me, again?”

“I was designed with the intention of aiding the Human Pathfinder. It is core to my existence. Without access to your implant, I will not learn in the same way. I will not grow. Furthermore, you will not have access to the augmentations my presence makes possible.”

“SAM,” Ryder chokes, “What did you do to me? What are you for?”

SAM provides no immediate answer, but after processing, responds, “Alec Ryder sealed information about my development from me. While it is in my databanks, I do not have access.”

Ryder wants to scream, instead he asks, “If I keep saying no, will you ask Aurelia instead?”

“Yes,” SAM does not hesitate. “As I have stated, access to a Pathfinder’s implant is a requirement to fulfill my assigned tasks.”

“But you don’t know what those are?”

“Not all of them.”

Ryder turns to leave.

“I did not mean to cause you anguish.”

Ryder grips the doorframe, but can’t bear to turn around, “I know.”

\--

Ryder is asleep, Aurelia next to him in bed, with the door glides open.

He wakes in a panic, reaching out because of muscle memory, even though he’s dressed in a tee and sweats, instead of his armor. The figure in the doorway raises both his hands disarmingly.

“Anthony,” Reyes says.

“Shit,” Ryder pulls his hand back, throwing the sheets off him and climbing out of bed. He trips towards the door, throwing his arms around Reyes’ back and pulling him close, “I didn’t know anything.”

Reyes laughs quietly into Ryder’s shoulder, “Keema wanted as few people as possible to even know I was injured.” Pulling back, Reyes cradles Ryder’s face in his hands, “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

“And you think I’m the reckless one,” Ryder looks back over his shoulder, to where Aurelia is still asleep. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Reyes nods, “My shuttle is in the dock.”

Ryder doesn’t bother putting on shoes. They walk the quiet Hyperion halls, hand in hand. While crews are always at work, they’re reduced for the night cycle, with only mission-critical positions on staff this late.

The concrete floor of the dock is cold against Ryder’s feet. Reyes lets him into the shuttle first, closing the doors behind them, once they’re inside the transport bay.

The back of the transport has been cleared for cargo room, so there’s nowhere for them to sit. They end up on the floor, their backs against the closed door and feet out straight in front of them. Ryder grabs hold of Reyes’ hand again, twining their fingers together and squeezing.

“You came for me,” Ryder says, unsure how Reyes will take it.

“As soon as I got the call,” he picks up their hands, turning Ryder’s so he can kiss the back of it. “I had to be there.”

Ryder rests his head against Reyes’ shoulder. It’s...nice, being this close. Knowing that Reyes is safe.

Not knowing where to begin, Ryder just starts talking, hoping that he’ll stumble on the right narrative. “Someone...hurt me before I left the Milky Way. And I hurt them. A lot of people got hurt. I should have known better.” He turns his head to press his nose into Reyes’ shirt.

“You were right, that I am not a good person. And though I may want to change, the nature of my position...I won’t. Not entirely,” Reyes drops his hand on Ryder’s thigh. “But that doesn’t change the fact I love you, Anthony.”

“Why?” Anthony asks, letting his eyes drift closed, “tell me why.”

He can hear the smile in Reyes’ voice, “Because you’ve done more than should have ever been asked of you. Because you did what had to be done. You’re intelligent and courageous and kind.”

Ryder mumbles, “I’m selfish and scared.”

“Maybe,” Reyes draws circles against Ryder’s leg, the friction warming against Ryder’s sweats. “But that doesn’t make everything else I’ve said untrue.”

They’re quiet now. Both of them.

“I love you too,” Ryder says.

Reyes’ fingers stop moving, “Should I ask you why?”

Ryder sighs, “Because I’m a fool. And you always say the right things.”

Reyes laughs.

“And,” he doesn’t want to mess this up, “I don’t know what it’s like, to be you. Fuck, I don’t even know if Reyes Vidal is your real name.”

“It is,” Reyes assures him.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be you. What you’ve gone through. But I want to know where our future goes.”

“Then, let’s make a plan.”

They end up sprawled across the shuttle floor, Reyes on his back and Ryder grinding his hips down to take his cock. He puts his sweaty hands to Reyes’ chest, groaning as Reyes thrusts up to meet him. Hands on Ryder’s hips to keep him steady as he grinds.

Ryder leans forward, biting at Reyes’ lips, sharing promises that while it won’t always be like this, they’re going to do their best to be good.

\--

“SAM?”

“Ryder.”

Ryder grabs at his shoulder, pulling his shirt tight. “It’s okay now. To use my implant. Our…” he shakes his head, “Our work isn’t done.”

“Yes, Pathfinder.”

There’s a tingling sensation, when SAM cuts back into his nervous system. For several minutes, SAM stretches him, fills in the spaces that have been left empty. Ryder slept through this process the first time, when SAM was forced upon him, instead of accepting them by his own choosing.

_Your brain chemistry is altered._

_**Dr. T’Perro recommended someone, a specialist. They came out of cryo to help me. And the others who need it.** _

_I am glad._

_**Are you?** _

_Yes, Pathfinder. Because you are happy._

Not quite yet. But, hopefully soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the support you've shown me over the course of this story.
> 
> There was supposed to be one more sex scene, that was more explicitly Reyes/SAM/Ryder, that may appear as a one-shot down the line (it did not end up fitting into the narrative arc, that took some directions I was not anticipating)
> 
> Other than that, it would mean a great deal to me if you left kudos if you haven't already, and if you commented if you enjoyed the story. I really appreciate each and every one of you who have stuck with me through this project. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)


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